The Steward of the Second
by myselfonly
Summary: After the longest winter of their lives, Legolas and Gimli - more weary and more damaged than ever before - return to Minas Tirith so that they might continue their interrupted plans with Aragorn. Instead they get waylaid, try their hand at investigating a murder and get dragged once more into danger and intrigue. Mystery and humour, friendship... just as always.
1. Chapter 1

**A brief foreword, as is traditional and probably necessary.**

 **This fic follows directly after my last multi chapter fic, The Silence in the Song. Silence took three years to write and is a bit of a beast, and is also the third part in rather a long series. I don't expect new readers to instantly cry 'egad!' and dash off to read that first, because it's a bit of a commitment. You SHOULD be okay without the history, although you won't know some of the OCs I reference and a few things might seem a bit odd out of context. Feel free to cry 'egad!' and dash off to read my back catalogue though; I'm certainly not going to stop you! :)**

 **This fic is two thirds written already, I have a good ten chapters ready to go (more or less) and will not be abandoned. It is far more light-hearted, it isn't going to become the angst-a-thon that Silence became, and I genuinely hope that you enjoy it. Updates will be far more regular, chapters will generally be shorter than this one, but I've already chopped it in half and I couldn't trim it down any further.**

 **Thanks to Lindir's Ghost, who I didn't actually give a chance to beta this. I launched it at her, at it's full original (huge) length, then decided to post it anyway. Sorry love, hope you enjoyed the first read-through in any case! Also to Vanimalion, who is ever a source of support and entertainment during my freakout moments, and to Cheeky Beak who should be very happy to see that Aragorn is present through this whole story. Finally, you get your wish my dear :)**

 **Anyway, I think that's enough from me. I present to you - the Steward of the Second.**

 **Have a great weekend :)**

 **MyselfOnly**

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 **~{O}~**

Northern Ithilien is waking up.

It has been a long winter, it feels like the longest I have ever known, but now we walk through glens and meadows with the sun warm upon our backs. Hills run with dancing snowdrops, absolute rivers of them, and trees rise up from a mist of bluebells – dappled by shadow and lit brightly by sun. Catkins fall into soft carpets, I can smell flowers and wet soil, and the trees are alive with birdsong. My heart is lighter than it has been in a long time.

Everywhere I look there is a new thing of beauty. The sky is a rich blueness without a single flaw, and then an hour later it is pummelling us with torrential rain only to clear up an hour after that. Thunderheads roll by – crisp white and sullen dark – but despite my lifelong dislike of rain in any form, the vagaries of the weather in spring is something to be borne… it is certainly dramatic, there is no question of that. At least it is not snowing.

We travel steadily southward, toward Minas Tirith. _Very_ steadily. Eru, we would have been there a week ago if Legolas could bring himself to walk past a single tree without speaking to it!

He tells me that they are waking up, that they mumble and sigh and stir and I try to imagine it. He has told me that the voices of the trees are more like dreams: feelings and colours and sensation, an interconnection, a sense of being rooted through all of the world. And because they know only summer, they also know only joy.

I cannot imagine it, although I have tried, but I cannot find it in myself to grow impatient or cross with him for all of our delays. He stands with his hands pressed to the gnarled bark of an old elm… elegant fingers pressed into the rough ridges and furrows of the bark, twisted and coarse. His face is tilted into the bare canopy, his face exposed to the light. Legolas is a creature of the summer, and he is waking up as well.

Sunlight turns his hair to gold, his eyes river-clear and as blue as the sky. He turns to me and he smiles, a rare smile without any barriers at all – wide and guileless – and he laughs simply for the joy of it. It washes the darkness of the winter from my heart, and I cannot help but grin right back, shake my head and lean back against a tree of my own.

Legolas is not always an old archer. Sometimes he is a young elf, because in truth this is all he is.

~{O}~

"I am simply saying that it is barely worth the effort, Gimli," Legolas says.

I ignore him, but he is in one of his strange moods tonight and will not be ignored. "It is too windy, you are wasting your time. It is not even that cold!"

"Well," I huff irritably, "it is a good job that you are not in charge of fires then, is it not?"

Legolas scowls, hunkers down against a log and mutters to himself in his own tongue. I catch most of it but ignore him as best I can, and after half an hour I have coaxed a spluttering and ill-looking fire to life despite the wind. It is smoking badly and a fair gust will certainly put it out, my eyes are red and streaming, but I still give him a smug smile, dust my hands off and sit back. In truth I am blinking tears from my eyes and trying not to cough. It really is too windy tonight.

"You would have kept at that until you died," he accuses. "Just to prove a point."

"I am not so childish, Legolas," I inform him archly. He is not wrong.

Legolas could have built this fire. He probably could have done a better job in half the time but he is notoriously stingy when it comes to campfires. He is unfailingly practical at times; he does not often feel the cold and he does not need the light to see by. If I wish for a fire, I must make it myself, and frankly he can keep his opinions about it to himself.

He shuffles closer though, and I widen my eyes in disbelief.

"Get away from my fire," I instruct him very seriously. I gesture toward it with both hands, a grand and encompassing thing. "You did not wish for one, and so this is mine. You may behold its glory from afar."

He snorts a laugh, and in muted tones of black and sullen red I see his face relax and soften into that smile I see so infrequently these days. I grumble and huff, but I shift and shuffle until there is room beside me. He sits so that our shoulders nearly touch, pulls a handful of grass to throw at me half-heartedly and I bump my shoulder against his. He gives me a fond look, and we settle into silence.

Legolas and I have spent months apart. It has been the majority of the winter and a good part of spring since we last saw one another, but this last two weeks have been a blessing. I have missed him, and I think that he has missed me, and we have fallen into old habits as though our separation has only been for a matter of hours.

I think our time apart has been well spent, because Legolas is certainly far better than he was when I saw him last. He is different, that is something I had expected, but he is not the elfling that I left behind months ago either… broken in both body and mind. He has spent his time wisely: has managed to run off the majority of his madness, has started to find himself. Has started to rebuild his walls.

But still, he is different.

He says that I am different as well, although I know not how. I have spent these last weeks with my father – or rather, in my father's halls, because he has been far too busy to spend much time with me. It has been good to spend time with sensible and sane folk, to walk beneath the mountain and not have anything odd or dangerous happen to me, and although I have spent the time in healing I have also been terribly bored. Dwarves are fine folk – predictable and stout and strong – but I have become far too used to elves. I would never admit this, of course.

"You realise this is how it started last time," I murmur beneath my breath, and although Legolas replies with nothing but a muffled grunt I understand it as though he had spoken. The link that the Shadow gave us is fading, indeed it is almost gone, but Legolas and I were able to read each other before the Shadow forced this _knowing_ upon us.

It is not gone entirely, I can still feel him: a brush of his thoughts intruding upon mine, knowledge that I have never earned, a clarity of sensation that I have never known before… my whole world tinted now through the eyes of an elf. If I concentrate, if I focus, then I can make it stronger and clearer and sometimes we can talk this way, but we do not. As much as this is an honour – and it is an honour – I do not think that either of us wish to be reminded of how we came to be this way. It is too dark, and we will never be free of it if we do not let it go.

It is difficult, though; the last time that we came to Minas Tirith it started off a chain of events that had Legolas and I both ready to die beneath a mountain. It is the reason that the elfling is so different now – permanently on the edge of madness, blinded by the Song of Iluvatar – and also why he and I have so much to fix between us. It is my fault he is this way, entirely my fault, and this journey is nothing but a reminder of it.

"There was no way to avoid it, I had to go to Estel," he mutters glumly. "My father wrote to him. If we do not go to Minas Tirith then Gondor will march upon the Greenwood, and my father says he will hand me over gladly."

"It was your job to write to Estel," I tell him. "When we left Minas Tirith, he told you. You should have written to him in the winter; he could not have marched for weeks – he would have calmed down by the time the snows thawed."

"Aye, but Gimli, knowing me as you do, how was that ever going to be a likelihood? And you could have written to him as well."

I open my mouth but I have nothing to say, because he is right. Aragorn might have tasked Legolas with writing to him, but I knew that he would not. I knew all along, and even if he had written a thousand letters there was nothing to stop me sending tidings of my own. I poke at the fire with a particularly sturdy stick, sending sparks up toward the blackened sky. The wind catches them and sends them in a dervish.

"What would I have told him, Legolas?" I ask quietly. "How could I possibly have put it into words?"

There is a silence that settles between us then, but there is a lot said in that silence. In moments I hear it all, feel it all: exhaustion, grief, loss, the utter sadness and hurt that I carried all of this winter past. I feel every moment of it, crushing me until I struggle to breathe, and Legolas rests his hand upon my shoulder. He grips it painfully, brings me back to our little campfire on the Pelennor. I clear my throat and poke angrily at the fire.

Legolas does not look at me, does not react, but I know that he can read my heart as though it is his own. I know because it is not the first time – not the first time he has felt my memories, not the first time that I have felt his. The two of us keep re-living the winter over and over again and we cannot break free of it.

"Estel will understand," Legolas says softly.

I do not reply – because out of all of our friends I know that Aragorn will understand better than any – but it does not mean that I wish to talk about it. I turn and I catch Legolas' eye – so raw and open and hard to meet now. He softens it with a blink and a smile, and I take a deep breath… release it carefully.

"He will try," I concede. I meet his gaze, although it is difficult, and I push my feelings toward him because the last vestiges of what the Shadow gave us means he will hear it. I try to make him understand. "He will never truly know."

"Of course not," Legolas turns his attention back toward our sickly fire. He jabs a few pieces of firewood in strategic places, shifts the wood around, and suddenly it is healthy and strong and I cannot help but scowl at how _annoying_ that is.

He turns back to me, and eyes of summer blue fight past every defence I have; an elven gaze burning into my thoughts. I consider how like his father he is now: more distant, more intense, more sad. It was not there before – not before the Shadow, not before this winter – but it is there now.

"You and I are the only two who _know_ , but he will not ask."

I do not wish to speak about it any longer. I do not wish to acknowledge it, I do not wish to ever mention it again. With Legolas it is different; Legolas is… _Legolas_. It is not the same with him, it never is, because I do not have to discuss it at all. Legolas simply understands.

I rub at my beard, I close my eyes, and he grips at my shoulder again.

"He will not ask, Gimli," he repeats softly, and I nod. I believe him, and I am glad, because I do not think that I could talk about it even if I wished to.

~{O}~

We are half a day from Minas Tirith, and Legolas has found a small stand of apple trees. They are small and wizened, as apple trees always seem, and I often think of them as looking like old men. Curled brown fronds of winter-dead ferns choke the ground, but I can see fresh green fiddle-heads poking up through the scruff and my clothes catch on bramble thorns.

Legolas presses my hands to the bark of the eldest tree, its branches looping and low and wide. I can see the faintest hint of milk-white flower buds pushing through, rich green leaves unfurling like an exhale, and although I am very dubious about this I allow it… I am excited, of all things.

The Shadow gave us this ability to share a mind and heart, and through it Legolas has shown me wonders I had never imagined possible. I have heard the Song of Iluvatar – pure and perfect, the way only the Firstborn can hear it. I have heard the singing in the Stars and watched their stories, I have felt what it is to hear and see and _know_ everything around me… be a part of it like a melody. I have felt the wildness of the wood, the calling of the wind and the joy in the storm.

Our time is running out, and Legolas still has much he would show me before he no longer can.

He pushes my hands to the bark, clumsy and thick and graceless, and he covers them with hands elegant and white and scarred. I stretch my mind toward his – I know how to do this now, and it is easy… so easy.

I hear the waking of the trees in spring, and it is overwhelming.

They are giants, far larger than their size. Their thoughts are like air, stretching deep down below them and extending out around them… whispers and words in the wind, colour and sensation. This tree is old and sleepy and slow, but it is happy. It is surrounded by its children, happy to feel the sun, and it knows that there is an elf here because it is suddenly very focussed upon the sparrows that build a nest in its branches. It pushes forward the image/thought/feeling of them like a proud parent showing them off, presenting them to Legolas, and I am nothing more than an observer when the elfling replies.

Admiration, he sends. Fondness, and happiness and greeting all at once. It is an elegant communication, beautiful, and I am carried upon these feelings and thoughts like dander upon a breeze.

It is pure. So pure and beautiful… innocent.

I hear the waking of the wood. I hear a part of the world that I have been denied all of my life, and I wonder how I will ever live knowing that this is beyond my reach. The apple tree surrounds me with hope and sleepy happiness, twisted tightly with the Song of Iluvatar like the clear chime of a bell, and it cuts through the stain of darkness that sits in my heart. It lightens it, fades it, just a bit.

Legolas opens my eyes. He shows me the dreams of trees, and I am overwhelmed… it is too much.

I weep for the joy of it.

~{O}~

"He should have more windows," the elfling observes, although I am far more attentive toward the wine in my hand than the room I am in. There is a fire before me, a deep rug of sheepskin beneath my feet, and I am sat in a wing backed chair that makes me feel as though I am being submerged. I am warm and settled, but the elfling is pacing as though he is about to be attacked at any moment.

"You should tell him," I tell say certainly. "You live mostly in trees. I am sure he will be very receptive to your observations on his windows."

Legolas gives me a flat look, full of scorn, and when I do not respond he returns to pacing. I can feel the agitation in him – scratching at my mind like madness, like an itch – but I cannot do anything for him. Not right now. We are at the very highest point of Minas Tirith in one of Aragorn's receiving rooms, but we might as well be trapped in the deepest dungeon as far as Legolas is concerned. He is ragged, burning… ready to claw his fingers to the bone to be free of the mountain.

The old Legolas could have hidden behind his walls – those good elven walls inside of his heart, born from centuries of hardship and pain and experience. Walls that keep him hidden from the world, safe and sane, and removed from everything that can cause him hurt. The old Legolas could have endured this far better, but this Legolas cannot, because his walls are gone… destroyed by a foolish and selfish dwarf. This Legolas cannot abide being confined, and I have made him this way.

He has opened every window, drawn every curtain, and I am utterly frozen but I do not say anything. I scrape my chair closer to the fire with a screech and his eyelid flickers, but he says nothing. I hate seeing him like this. I hate it.

Aragorn takes this moment to finally arrive, the relief I feel is crushing, and the tension in the room is broken in an instant. I have just a heartbeat to feel a shadow of guilt – there is no way that Legolas did not feel how relieved I am – but it is washed away; the elfling is not so cruel as to hold me at fault for such things, and as soon as Aragorn is with us, everything else… it is of no matter at all.

He looks windswept and harassed, but in my experience he always looks that way. The King of Gondor has a scruffiness that no amount of finery or adornment will ever wipe clean. He is a ranger at heart and always will be – he is still a wolf. Still proud and wild and fine.

Aragorn stands for a moment – dressed in simple clothes, because he is a simple man – and he watches us through a thatch of dark hair that he really should trim more regularly if he wishes to be taken seriously. It is his eyes that mark him – penetrating and pale and intense – and now that I am beneath his regard I really wish that I was not. I spend a lot of time being stared at by elves, and it is very unpleasant indeed, but it is not wildness or strangeness that makes Aragorn's regard uncomfortable. It is unpleasant because when Aragorn looks at you… really _looks_ at you, you wish for nothing more than to be better than you are. To be brave and strong, and to make him proud.

I am not sure that I am worthy of it right now.

"You look awful," he says with a frown, ruining any kingly effect. He is looking straight at Legolas, thankfully, and the elfling's face drops into a stormy scowl. I am in for a long night, I know it in a second, and so I pour myself another cup of wine.

"Well that is rude," Legolas bites out. "Not 'welcome to Minas Tirith', or 'how was your journey', or even 'I have missed you, my dearest friend'. You could have insulted me by letter, I need not be here for it. Come Gimli, we are leaving."

"Do not bring me into this," I mutter, but I am not sure that I was meant to reply. I pull my chair even closer to the fire, prop my feet upon the footstool, and leave them to it.

"You are being too sensitive; you have no right to be indignant," Aragorn pulls a face. "And Faramir is my dearest friend now; elflings who do not write to their friends are replaced by far better ones. Your father wrote to me Legolas. Your father!"

"Gimli did not write either," Legolas mutters obstinately, and I say it a bit louder this time:

"Do not bring me into this!"

"That is… that is _absurd!"_ Aragorn cries, his hands flying out into a gesture of utter frustration. I spend a lot of my life flapping around like that – I am often pushed into this sort of apoplexy – but it is the first time I have seen Aragorn this way. He strides across the room and Legolas moves away, just enough to keep a certain distance between them. I do not think that he realises he has done it, but Aragorn certainly does; I see it in the narrowing of his eyes, the slightest pause in his step.

"When you nearly die," the king grits through his teeth, "you write to your friends. You do not leave it for months, you do not leave it for your father to do, and you especially do not do these things when your father is Thranduil Oropherion. I have a fondness for him, but he is sparse in detail and has a love of _excruciatingly_ florid words. My Quenya is not particularly fluent, Legolas. I had to send out for a translator."

At this Legolas snorts something vaguely like laughter, but he is trying very hard to be cross and will not give in so easily. He folds his arms, hides all of his annoyance behind that infuriating mask of his: cold, distant; insufferably elven.

"You think me an invalid? In need of protection?" he asks carefully. "And you think Faramir better than me? Ha! You are welcome to one another – see if I care at all."

Aragorn closes his eyes and bows his head, pinches the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger and glances at me for assistance.

"Perhaps you should fetch your crown," I suggest helpfully. "It might make you feel better."

This time Legolas definitely laughs – quickly smothered – and I can see Aragorn giving me a foul look out of the corner of my eye. I turn and meet it.

"You started this, my friend; you know how he can be. You have only yourself to blame."

"You are getting as bad as he is," Aragorn accuses. I give no response other than to raise my cup in salute and I hear Aragorn sigh, deflating, just as I knew he would. The man who defeated the darkness and reclaimed the throne of Gondor is helpless in the face of this elfling, or perhaps he is clever enough to know when a battle cannot be won. There is silence in the room for a very long time before he speaks again.

"So," he enquires pleasantly, starting all over again. "Welcome to Minas Tirith. How was your journey?"

And this time Legolas cannot help but laugh. Bright and sudden, a bird bursting into flight.

Legolas and Aragorn finally greet one another like the brothers that they are, and I consider fetching a book to read whilst they embrace. It is fierce and heartfelt, terribly drawn out, but I am rewarded once they are at arm's length again. Legolas is smiling like the dawn – wide and open and true – and I feel his joy like a beam of sunlight through the trees.

It brings a fond smile unbidden to my face, but then it is my turn to be crushed. Aragorn embraces me fiercely enough to drive all air from my lungs, he is laughing brightly and clapping me on the back, and I cannot hide my smile any longer.

Eru, it is good to see him. I have missed him terribly. There have been times of late that I would have given my beard to see him again and now we are here, together, and everything is well.

"Ah, laddie," I breathe around a broad grin, "it is good to see you… so very good."

"He has spent the winter with _dwarves_ , Estel," Legolas confides seriously. "I would not take it as too much a compliment."

"It has been good for my nerves, certainly."

"And your waist," he murmurs, but I take no offense; a sturdy girth is a thing to be proud of in a dwarf. There are many years ahead of me to work on such a thing, but I have been running about with elves for too long – I am possibly the leanest dwarf on Arda.

"Better to be made of stone and leather than twigs and grass," I sniff, and when I catch his eye he gives me a fond look. He rests his hand upon my shoulder – right where he always rests it.

"I have a thing to ask of you whilst you are here," Aragorn settles into a chair. He sits as though it is a throne, as though he is in the centre of the room although he is not, and I think that in any other company he would be the exact centre of attention. Unfortunately Legolas has started to become anxious again – I can feel it creeping upon the edges of his mind like flames – and he is distracting us both. He wanders about the room, picking things up and putting them back down again, trailing long fingers against fabric and stone and wood. He makes a prompting gesture when Aragorn does not continue – elegant and measured – but he does not look over.

"Faramir is late – he was meant to act as steward for a week whilst you are here. Arwen says that if I do not leave the city and spend time with my friends then she will divorce me, and I believe her, but I cannot go until he arrives. Until then I would like you to spend time with the constabulary – teach them a few things."

"The what?" Legolas drops a tiny ornate glass bottle. I cringe as it shatters into dust but he pays it no mind, because this has snatched away his attention entirely. He looks baffled.

"The constabulary, Legolas," Aragorn repeats slowly, as though to a child. "I do not wish to have a city ruled by an army. I will have my law governed by honourable men, and I will have real courts to mete out justice. An army has no place in a time of peace… not to govern peaceable people."

"That is a fine thing, Aragorn," I say carefully, because Legolas has lost his words. "A fine thing indeed, but I am certain it has not passed you by that neither of us are men. What could a dwarf and an elf teach men of mannish law?"

"Not law," he disagrees. "Any man can learn law, it is justice and fairness and… Valar save me, a modicum of sensibility would not go amiss!"

I toy with making some comment about how this rules Legolas out, but I am trying to be less predictable, and this is far too interesting to be starting arguments. Aragorn rubs his face wearily, tents his hands over his mouth and then huffs a laugh.

"Oh Gimli," he breathes, then laughs again and settles back. "So far the only thing we have done is narrow down that their cloaks should be either white or green, and not any other colour."

"White would be fitting," I offer vaguely, hoping that I am being helpful. "It would be visible, certainly."

"Do you know how much it costs to bleach wool so that it is completely white?" he asks pleasantly. "Well neither did I until recently. The council have spent hours… _hours_ arguing over it. They have also argued over whether they should be armed with swords or perhaps crossbows, or whether this will merely encourage our criminals into armaments. Whether those who served in the military should keep their rank, or whether a new ranking system should be created. Whether there should be divisions, what the minimum joining age should be, how they should be trained and by whom… it is endless! So yes… at least we have the cloaks narrowed down to two colours."

"They should be white," Legolas muses absently, back to wandering the room. "That would look fine indeed – like starlight, visible for all to see. I agree with Gimli though, Estel; I do not know what help we can be."

He replaces the book he has been leafing through, rests his hand upon the shelf. The firelight catches his hair in glints of gold and despite what he says, I see a kindling of something in him. Interest… he is interested in this, and by Eru the lad needs to be distracted right now.

"Legolas," Aragorn quirks the slightest smile, "you were schooled on how to govern a kingdom. You were taught all of this a very long time ago, and you have spent the years in between commanding elves in battle. Gimli is far smarter and far more sensible than you have ever been – I am sure that between the two of you, you can work something out."

Legolas ignores the slight, our eyes lock and a lot passes between us. He is curious, interested, and I admit that I am not particularly adverse to it either. It is certainly a way to pass the time, and if anything it will take Legolas' mind off things for a while. Aragorn scents victory on the air, leans forward and breaks into our private counsel.

"Just meet with them," he pushes. "See how they are, see what they need, advise me on what needs to be done. It is all that I ask."

And I know that he has won. He has put just enough of a plea into his tone that Legolas would never refuse him now, even if he wished to. Legolas rolls his eyes – well aware that he has been manipulated – because he has never really been able to refuse Aragorn anything, and Aragorn knows it full well.

Our sneaky king grins hugely, settles back, and pours himself a cup of wine. At least I know what we will be getting up to for the next few days.

TBC

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	2. Chapter 2

I wake slowly, like rising from the depths of an ocean, and it is a pleasant awakening indeed. I am warm and comfortable, nothing hurts, I am not frightened or worried and for a long time I simply lie where I am. I am happy.

My room in Minas Tirith has very little to distinguish itself; it is simply a room. It is not particularly large, although it is spacious enough, and it is not ornate or lavishly furnished. There is a soft bed with a feather eiderdown and deep pillows. There is a fire and a chair and a chest for my belongings, a small and sturdy desk should I feel the need to write anything, and every day someone comes in and tidies things up although I have never seen them. It is not much of a room, but it has been specially selected and I am rather fond of it.

There is a door that leads to Legolas' chambers, which adjoin mine, and after I have washed and dressed myself I try it and find that it is unlocked. I remember to knock at the very last moment, but the elfling knows that I am awake and due to visit just the same as I know he is in there and waiting.

It is this room that has marked the two chambers as ours; it is the reason we do not sleep in huge and ornate guest rooms and I am long resigned to the idea that Legolas and I will most often be housed close to one another. I am quite fine with a small room, because I cannot imagine the elfling sleeping anywhere other than this one.

They are the old Healing Master's rooms, and so they both have a lingering smell of herbs, but it is gentle and pleasant and so I do not mind. Legolas has a bed he will never sleep in, a fire he never bothers to keep aflame, a desk upon which his pack still sits, and a few more chairs than mine. But it is the garden that makes it his.

A garden, atop a mountain! It is a thing of wonder – a wide and deep balcony that runs along the outside of the room, and has been glassed into a greenhouse. Arwen maintains it whilst we are away, and within the garden there grows a veritable forest of things: flowers and shrubs and herbs, grasses and small potted fruit trees that have remained stunted by their captivity. The plants are cramped together and overflowing their trays and troughs, so that it does not look like inside at all.

Passing through the growth there is a further door that leads out to a small terrace, open to the sky, and Legolas never closes it. The flowers bob and the grasses hiss in the breeze that passes through, and I have my suspicions that Legolas sleeps in here. I am simply glad that he sleeps at all.

I find him dressed and in the doorway to the garden, and I can see that Aragorn has got his own way again. They argued for a long time last night about Legolas' tendency toward dressing as a Mirkwood archer when he is visiting. The elfling sees no reason why he should gussy himself up when he never does at home, but the king's opinion is that if he has to, then so does Legolas.

Aragorn favours blue, and so the elfling wears pale blue, and I must admit that it is a good colour on him. His tunic is light and beautifully made, with silver stitching that looks of elven design to me. His leggings are grey and his boots calf skin, a belt cinched tightly at his waist so that he looks slender and elegant and tall. His hair is un-braided and falls softly about his face in summer gold, and I have always thought that he looks younger and more vulnerable this way. I am endlessly glad that I was born strong and sturdy rather than flimsy and fragile, but I must admit that he does look quite fine.

He takes one look at me, and his face drops into a scowl.

"Why are you permitted to wear your own clothes, when I am not?"

"My goodness," I breathe in a mockery of confusion. "I have no idea whatsoever why this might be, Prince Legolas Thranduilion of the Woodland Realm. How _indeed_ is it that you might be expected to wear fine clothes whilst I, Gimli, a simple dwarf, might not? We should call for Aragorn at once; there has been a terrible mistake."

The elfling says a very rude word as I make a bee-line straight toward our breakfast, my attention entirely upon the honey cakes. I stand in a warm beam of spring sunlight, and it feels clean and fresh and pleasant. A feather light breeze brings the scent of last night's rain, and for a moment I feel a touch of Legolas in my mind. He wishes to be outside, he feels the wind calling to him, but he is starting to learn to shut it out again. Starting to, but he is not quite there yet.

"You actually look like a prince for once, and it makes Aragorn happy," I conclude. "It will do you much good to at least _look_ civilised for a few days."

"You are considered a Lord, you know," he mutters sulkily. I decide not to respond; we could be arguing for hours, and I have a sneaking suspicion that I would end up in uncomfortable clothes by the end of it. Instead I fall quite unceremoniously into the softest of the chairs – the one I always claim for myself – and begin my breakfast. I eye him dubiously, and he raises a questioning brow.

"You must be sure not to walk about bristling with weapons when you wear nice things. It ruins the effect."

He laughs, his mood shifting suddenly as it often does, and he brushes his hair from his face as though he is wiping his poor mood away. He selects a honey cake, picks at it with elegant hands, and he perches on the desk although there are chairs not two feet away from him.

"Estel says that if I feel the need to carry my knives around his city, then he will provide me with a bodyguard until I feel safe. I have no wish to spend my visit hiding from a chaperone."

"You were shot by a crossbow the last time we were here," I point out.

"I was," he nods. "If I am unlucky enough for such a thing to happen twice, then it is fated and I should accept it."

I feel my face relax into an amused smile and silence falls between us, comfortable just as it ever is. I can hear birds outside, and the soft rustling of the garden, but there is nothing else at all. It is peaceful and still.

"Your heart is calm, Gimli," Legolas says softly, and I realise that I have let my eyes slip closed. I do not open them; the sunlight is across my face and I am quite fine this way.

"It does not take much to keep a dwarf happy, my friend," I mumble past my beard. "I am warm and clean and fed, I have managed a good few months without anything horrible happening to me, I am with my friends," I crack one eye open, "and you."

He throws a morsel of honey cake at me, which falls quite far from reaching me, and there is a softness in his face that could only be recognised by those who know him. He is too much like his father of late – too still, too difficult to read – but to me his emotions dance across his face like a flag in the wind. I can see them, and right now he is as happy as he can be. It gives me hope that perhaps one day he will be healed. Perhaps one day he might be as he was.

~{O}~

Once we are done with our breakfast we find ourselves host to an alarmingly old man, whose sole job appears to be the organisation of our time whilst we are in Minas Tirith. He looks as though a bad fright might send him sailing to the afterlife, he is made almost entirely of sticks and leather, but by Eru does he frighten me. He has the eyes of an elf and the voice of a king, and we are given our instructions as though he expects them to be followed unfailingly.

He stands in the doorway and a flock of timid young girls break formation around him, settle upon our discarded dishware, and once they depart there is not a single crumb left behind. He informs us that we are to spend the morning being shown around the garrison where the constabulary are now situated, and then there are a number of notable persons involved in the matter that we are to meet with. We will have refreshments at midday, then we will be inspecting the new recruits where they are being trained, after which there is a library of books on law and such tedious nonsense that we are expected to pass our opinion on. By fifth bell we will return to our chambers, where we will bathe and take rest before dining with the King and Queen, and after that we are given leave to do as we will.

As a grown dwarf of respectable years, I have managed to pass my whole life thus far without needing anyone to organise it for me. I am only the son of a lord, and I think perhaps this is something afforded royalty, but I glance at Legolas to see how he is receiving this treatment and I nearly laugh aloud.

The elfling is wearing his most obstinate face – indeed he looks quite insulted – and I know for certain that he has no intention of following these instructions. None at all. My elfling has never liked being told what to do, and this man is officious and self-satisfied and I hope that Aragorn had no part in this. He has always seemed like a fairly clever man, and I would hate to have my opinion of him so quashed.

The man is still talking, entirely oblivious to the fact that he is under the full and direct force of Legolas' most penetrating glare, and the elfling finally reaches his breaking point. He interrupts him mid voice.

"Your name?" he demands, although I am sure that we have been told it already.

"I am Gowry, my lord," is the reply, perhaps a little surprised. I do not think he has been interrupted in his life.

"Indeed," Legolas muses, and then he is up and off and stalking out of the door. I grin and shrug as I follow, hurrying off after the elfling, and I find myself quite out of breath after a very short time. Legolas' legs are significantly longer than mine, and he is striding along with the full force of his pique.

"Legolas!" I implore after a while, and it comes out more like a laugh than anything. He checks his pace but not by much, and he gives me a look that breaks me out into laughter all over again. He is outraged!

"Men find comfort in the setting of schedules," I laugh, falling into pace by his side. "Only elves misplace entire days, you should be more forgiving."

"I should be no such thing," he informs me quite certainly, and I give up before I have even really made much effort. It is another battle I will not win, I am not so foolish as to try, and so instead I follow him through a labyrinth of stone. The elfling always seems to know where he is going, although I am utterly lost, and he is anxious to be out of the mountain so we make good time.

We find the sky, and although the sun is bright and the sky an uninterrupted expanse of blue, it is still early in the year and we are very high up. I am glad that I brought a cloak.

We make our way toward the sixth circle, passing through the mighty spur of stone that cuts through the city like a blade, and Legolas picks up his pace again until we are through it. There are very few people living so high in these reaches – it is not bustling markets or bawdy streets lined with taverns and shops and homes, not like the lower rings. It is quieter, more formal… certainly windier. Everyone here seems to be in a hurry, on some form of business, but it does not stop them from staring at us quite openly.

Legolas either does not notice or does not care, and it is something I have become used to of late. We make a strange pair, I know that we do – an elven warrior and a dwarf steaming along the streets of Minas Tirith. Legolas cuts a path for us – we are always afforded a wide berth when he has a purpose and a place to be – and our passage is marked by surprised young apprentices and squires bumping into or dropping things.

"Do you actually know where you are going?" I ask eventually.

"Vaguely," he shrugs, and that is as far as I am willing to entertain things. I collar the first young boy I see – a slip of a thing carrying an enormous stack of blankets – and I hail him. He drops them, of course.

"Ho… you, lad – little thing, yes you! Where would we find a constable in these parts?"

He points a quavering finger, eyes wide as saucers, and scrambles to pick up his blankets. I march off in the correct direction, and Legolas sighs as he follows me.

"Is it not enough to simply enjoy the air, Gimli?" he asks, as though I have disappointed him in some way.

"This is not air, Legolas," I inform him, "this is the sky. I am cold, I grow weary of being stared at, and apparently we have an appointment in three bells time."

He snarls at me but I continue regardless, and he follows just as I knew he would.

~{O}~

We reach a place that we are reliably informed is called the Rookery, although there are no rooks in it. I think there might have been once, but if it was ever used for such a thing then that time has long since gone. We are right on the edge of the outer wall – a series of long and thin buildings huddled up against the stone – and every spare bit of space is in the process of being transformed.

Stretches of unused ground are being fenced off as training areas. There are wooden huts being built, an army of carpenters out in the sunshine making things: bed frames, chairs and tables and benches, doors and shutters for the windows. They plane, sand, chisel and hammer away, and there are exhausted looking young men heaving extremely heavy looking furniture into the existing buildings. Draught horses stand at rest, tails swishing lazily as their carts are offloaded, and I think perhaps a lot of these things have come from the old army garrisons and billets. We are watching a whole new section of the city being outfitted.

I think that once this is finished, it will look rather fine. The buildings are neat and well made: low and sprawling and well laid out. The white stone is lit clearly in the sunlight, there have been trees planted and there are lawns that are being trodden into mud, but will recover. Once the wooden billets are completed it will complement it well. I think perhaps there is a good space for a petitions room here, right at the entrance to this enclosure, where the people can come and speak with a constable… perhaps something welcoming in sandstone and…

"Gimli stop it," Legolas grabs me by the sleeve and pulls me forward. I had no idea I had stopped. "You have that look upon you again; you are lost in thoughts of making things, and we have no time for you to start picking holes in what they do."

"Yes," I frown lightly, hurrying to catch up, "but I do not complain when you become insensible over a particularly fetching stand of trees, or trip over your feet because someone is practising at bow."

"We will return later," he promises. "You can criticise their workmanship as much as you like then. And I have never tripped over my feet once in my life."

I make a noise – not a particularly dignified one – but I follow him along the path in any case. There is a particular building that looks bigger, nicer; more elaborate. It practically screams that the more important people are here, but as we approach I can hear a man swearing as though he was raised by goblins. I have never heard such language! He is berating someone sorely, and I had not expected to hear this sort of thing in such a… _nice_ place. This is the voice of a soldier, a leader, but one risen from the ranks. Coarse and abrupt, battle hardened and far more worthy of respect, in my experience.

We stop suddenly, because the source of the shouting storms out of the building and we nearly collide. He stops as well, and for a long time we all simply stare at one another.

He is not particularly tall but he is broad, with hair closely cropped and a thick scar running across his scalp. He is bare chested and filthy, a patched and torn tunic in his hand that he tugs on in agitation, and he is younger than I had imagined. He is a veteran, he is no young man, but there are only the barest touches of grey in his hair and he keeps his beard trimmed closely. He looks about a step away from an alehouse, and a day or two away from ruin.

Men like this do not have families. Men like this play dice and visit taverns where cut-purses roam. They drink heavily and fight hard. Other men follow them unfailingly, and they often die long before the rest of us.

Men like this I can relate to.

"Well," he hooks both hands upon his hips, regards us with the slightest hint of scorn and then raises his voice slightly. "The dwarf and the elf prince are here to tell us how to do things, lads," he calls out, quirking his head over his shoulder slightly but not taking his eyes off us. He bows, floridly, mockingly. "Welcome to the Rookery, my lords! They are not paying us yet, half of us are war broken and the other half cannot grow a beard… we have no idea at all what we are doing, but here we are: ready to defend this mighty city from pickpockets and guttersnipes. At the behest of our most progressive and benevolent king, and because we cannot get jobs elsewhere, we are at your service."

I blink, stunned, and Legolas leans in toward me.

"I might like him," he hisses.

I think I might like him too.

~{O}~

He says his name is Hob, and he leads us behind a store room so that he can dunk his head into a barrel of water. He has been working all morning, he says, and apologises for his rough appearance but it does not sound like an apology at all. He eyes Legolas with undisguised contempt – seeing only his fine clothing, his overall appearance – and I find that I cannot _wait_ until Legolas crushes this first assessment, but I am patient. All good things come eventually.

"I expected you later than this," he says, swiping water from his face and ruffling it out of his short hair. He has not stopped watching us once, and the way that he is observing us is a bit unnerving. "Master Gowry said that Larke was to fetch you."

"We saw no point in waiting about," I reply neutrally. "Do you need more time?"

"No," he chuckles to himself, and tugs his tunic on. "If my king would have me conducting tours then that is what I shall do, but it will have to wait; there is something that requires our attention. There has been a murder."

TBC

* * *

 **A/N**

 **I was absolutely blown away by the reception this new fic received - you are all absolutely wonderful people. I think I replied to everyone (if I didn't, I meant to, and I am very sorry) but special thanks go to Halfpenny, who left me an absolutely huge review. I meant to track down your user account my friend and reply to you, but I didn't get a chance before I posted this chapter. I'd love to hear from you so we can speak properly, because your review meant a lot to me.**

 **This fic is about two thirds written already, and although it turned out a lot longer than I anticipated (hello, my name is myselfonly, nice to meet you) and a teeny weeny bit serious toward the end when I had meant for it not to be, I'm actually quite happy with the way it's turning out. I will be posting fortnightly, by the looks of things, and although these chapters are way shorter than they were with the Silence in the Song, I have about fifteen ready to post.**

 **So yes, absolutely brilliant to be back (although I wasn't actually gone for that long tbh) and it's great to hear from you all again - I've certainly missed the contact. These reviews are what keep these stories coming, so if you can take a minute to say hi I'd be chuffed to bits.**

 **Hope you all have a great weekend, and see you again soon :)**

 **MyselfOnly**


	3. Chapter 3

We are provided horses, and there are a lot of things happening very quickly so we try to remain out of the way. Legolas has yet to speak to any of the men; he does not trust them very readily, not before and certainly not after the winter we have had. He prefers to observe… to better learn the men he must have dealings with. He will start to speak later perhaps, once he has made up his mind about them, and of course how else is he to maintain his air of mystery? He can hardly be the silent and unnerving presence that elves seem to enjoy being if he is nattering away right from the get-go.

I avoid his eye – he is staring at me – and I wonder exactly how many of my thoughts he is catching.

There are five of us when we leave, and we clatter along the roads on tall horses that are nothing like the horse I am used to. My own horse – currently stabled in Lasgalen and sorely missed – is small and red and bad tempered, and far closer to the ground. This creature is grey and huge and it is like trying to steer a barge, but I am far better with the beasts than I used to be. I remain aboard, I swear only occasionally, and we follow the men all the way down to the second ring of the city.

We descend into parts of the city where people live and trade, and we are stared at the whole of the way. Children play in the streets, men hawk their wares, women walk around in light spring dresses with their hair twisting in the wind. They stand and talk, they carry things from here to there, they live their lives and it is rare that men on horseback come through the streets now. Especially not dragging oddities like us behind them.

We ride past, we keep going, and the place that we eventually find ourselves in is not full of bustle. It is not full of laughing children or busy markets, and women do not stand around talking with babes upon their hips. This city is still not recovered entirely, it will take many years for the scars of centuries to fade, and there are places like this one where the sun seems just that bit more shaded, the wind keener.

The people who live here do not have money or things to trade, they live in damaged houses amongst the ghosts of war. Their children do not wear shoes and they peer fearfully through windows that have no shutters. There are few people on the streets – or at least, not now that we are here – and it feels cluttered and narrow, deserted and unloved. This is the second largest circle of the city, twisting and secretive and largely ignored until now, because this is where the lost people live.

This is where the taverns are dark and full of quick hands and quicker blades. This is where women with heavily painted faces wait on the corners for lonely men. This is where the desperate come to play cards and drink away their sadness and grief, and this is where they are so often found in the gutter the next morning, stripped of everything.

I think we have reached our destination because Captain Hob pulls us to a stop, but I have no idea how he can tell one street from another here. The men dismount, two of them vanish almost instantly into the alleys and twisting paths but Hob does not. There is a body lying curled in the corner between two buildings, and he approaches it carefully. Legolas is not too far behind him.

It is a man, I can see that straight away, but I cannot see his face. He is tucked into himself, as though sleeping, but there is a crusted and drying stain where his blood has soaked through his clothing and he is too still. A living man and a dead man look nothing alike, I have seen enough of them in my days to tell them apart.

"Does this happen often?" I ask as I approach. Hob is close to the man, crouched and peering closely. He touches his clothes, pulls his cloak back, and then moves him so that we can see him better. Flat, pale, sunken… certainly dead. He is very young.

"In the second circle, this far from the main road, aye," Hob murmurs, deep in thought. He stands and dusts himself off, turns, and startles to see Legolas standing so close. The elfling's eyes are fixed on the dead man, unblinking and as focussed as a hawk, and when he does not move or say anything Hob edges past him. "He is not from this part of the city, he is a young scribe if I had to guess. His hands are ink-stained, his boots were stitched by Master Essa on the third circle… the old man's eyes are starting to fail, and his stitching is not the straightest. They are good boots though."

I am impressed. This man knows this city well indeed, he is going to be very good at this. The other two men return to us and head straight to Hob, shaking their heads in disgust.

"No one has seen anything sir," the taller one says. He is younger, slight and willowy, but he has seen battle before, I can tell. "This whole section of the alley has become invisible, it seems."

"They would not speak if they had seen the whole thing in person," the other says, also crouching by the body. He is red haired, stocky and well built, his face is round and kind. "They are afraid of their shadows here."

"No," Hob muses, distracted. "They do not trust us, is all."

Legolas has also started to poke around the body, and Hob is watching him. His eyes are on the elfling but he speaks to me.

"A blade through the ribs," he says. "He has nothing of value on him – he was likely robbed and left here. Unfortunate, but it is unlikely we will find the culprit; not without any witnesses or anyone willing to speak on what happened."

"Gimli," Legolas calls to me softly from where he crouches. " _Tirio_."

I go to him, crouch at his side and try not to wrinkle my nose. I can smell it, this close… blood and the beginnings of spoiling flesh. If I can smell it then it must reek to him, but the elfling is nonplussed.

"What have you seen?" I ask, peering at the body.

"Not this," he murmurs, and cants his head slightly to one side. "We have company, listen."

He says 'listen' but I know what he means – it is not my ears I should be listening with. Legolas and I may not be linked the way that we were, but there is still a connection between us. If I concentrate, if I put real effort into it, I can still capture what we had last winter. Just a part of what it was, but it is still there.

I open myself up as far as I can, I reach toward our connection and for a moment I see it… for a moment I see this alley the way that he does. I shut out the distractions – his distractions, all of the sights and sounds and smells that he can pick up that I cannot – and I know that we are not alone. We have company.

I nod to show that I understand, and we both stand at the same time.

" _Aphado den_ ," he tells me, " _os-'o adel din_."

I know that he has slipped into his own tongue in case we are overheard, but I hope this will not become a habit. I understand the _laegrim_ dialect better, since he uses it more often, and my own command of the more commonly spoken tongue is acceptable, but he believes I understand it better than I do. He tells me to follow, to circle behind our quarry, and then he is gone.

Legolas makes the transition from pavement to rooftop in a way that looks effortless: a spring and a pull and a step, his feet and hands finding places to grip that are all but invisible. Hob snorts, a sound very close to surprise, but also a little bit disapproving. I wonder whether it is elves in particular that he dislikes, or whether it is show-offs in general.

There is the sound of scuffling, soft boots scraping upon stone. Our watcher is running away, and so I follow.

I skirt the building that Legolas has just climbed and I go into another alley, circling around just as I have been told. Legolas whistles to me and I understand this far better; it is the hunting language of elves, and I learned it before I learned their tongue. The elves of Mirkwood can convey a lot in just a whistle, and it is far easier for those of us not willing to twist our tongues into knots with their ridiculous words, but it does not change the fact that he sounds like a bird when I sound like I am harassing a woman in the street.

He says to go left and so I go left, he tells me to cut through an alley and that is what I do. He runs above, I cut our quarry off, and it does not take us long to catch up with him. Our mysterious watcher comes sprinting out of the darkness between two buildings and slams straight into me.

He is tiny, which is well because he hits me rather hard. Instead of barrelling straight into me he bounces backward instead, lands into a puddle with a cry of dismay, and then I nearly have my face torn off by the biggest dog I have ever seen in my life. It bays at me in full voice, snarling and snapping, and stands over the boy – protecting him, although I am unsure what from. I do not even have a weapon, which I am starting to regret.

I feel a thrill of fear – every sensible person would be afraid of a furious dog as big as this one is – but I am not left alone for very long. Legolas is in the alley, a ghost emerging from the shadow, and he shouts out:

" _Avo nago den!_ Do not! He is only protecting the boy!"

Legolas holds his hand up to someone behind me, and I turn to see Hob with a crossbow in his hand, pointed straight at the dog. He pauses, surprised, and it is just long enough. The lad sees what he is about to do and cries out as well, scrambling to his knees and throwing himself in front of the dog. Skinny legs drag upon the muddy cobbles, thin arms wrap around a bristling neck, and he puts himself in the path of a crossbow quarrel.

"Please!" he cries, his voice thin and young. "Please! Do not kill him, do not shoot my dog! We only wanted to see, we meant no harm at all!"

Hob scowls, sighs, and lowers his crossbow as the lad begins to cry.

"I am not going to shoot him," he mutters. "Stop crying."

Legolas crouches before the boy and I come closer, now that the dog has settled. It is a massive brute, with brindled fur and a whip thin tail, but now that it has calmed down there is a decidedly stupid look upon its face. This is not a vicious animal, this is a pet… a companion, a friend.

"What is your name, _penneth_?" Legolas asks. The elfling is not very good with children – he does not know how to speak to them or deal with them – but he is getting a bit more experience of late. The lad looks absolutely horrified to be addressed by an elf in such finery, and I wonder whether this response would have been any better had Legolas been dressed as a warrior.

"Sig, my lord," he mumbles finally. He has stopped crying, and there are tear tracks through the dirt on his face. He wipes his nose on his sleeve and I only catch Legolas' flinch because I know him so well. "This is Moss. He meant no harm, he is my friend."

"I am Legolas, and this is my friend Gimli. He meant no harm either."

I scowl, because I think I have just been introduced in the same way as the dog, but I wipe it clear as quickly as I can. The boy is looking at me, and I do not wish to frighten him again.

"Why were you in the alley, Sig?" I ask, coming near.

Hob turns and dismisses his two men – sending them back to the alley we have come from – but he remains with us. He stands a respectful distance away, because we are already intimidating the lad and he will not speak if he is afraid.

"I wanted to see," he admits. He has calmed completely now, since we have not hauled him away or shot his dog, and he stands although it makes little difference. He is tiny, thin and filthy. I think he is older than his stature suggests but I cannot tell through the dirt on his face.

"Where are your parents?" Hob asks.

"Dead, sir," is the reply. "Died when the city was attacked. There were orcs in this circle, you know; I saw them with my own eyes. Breda looks after me now… her and Edgar and Moss. Will you find whoever did this to Wynn?"

"You knew that man?" Hob asks, surprised, and the lad nods quickly.

"He is Edgar's brother, and he was my friend too, sir. They lived here together, but Wynn got an apprenticeship with a scribe up on the third circle, moved away. I stay at their house sometimes and he comes and sees us – teaches me letters, says all boys should know how to read and write."

I move away, Legolas remains close to the boy but I know he can hear me from there. I look at Hob, watch him carefully, because we are visitors here and I can see him thinking things over. The captain has been rather a surprise to me; he is far keener of mind and far more reasonable than I had expected.

"Boy," he calls over. "Can you take us to Edgar?"

~{O}~

Legolas has gone quiet again, which is exactly what I had expected, but the silence is more than adequately filled by Sig. Now that we have proven ourselves unlikely to hurt him or do anything unkind, he is chattering away as though he has not spoken to anyone in weeks. Perhaps he has not.

He leads us with certain steps that know this city well, ducking through alleys and doorways that lead nowhere except other alleys. We tread streets of broken cobbles, we climb over fallen walls and wade through waters where the drainage has collapsed.

Sig talks constantly the whole way, undeterred by the fact that we are not talking back to him, and he is shadowed by his huge hound with every step. Hob hands me a blade at one point, giving me a steady look that says I might need it, and he glances at the elfling as though asking a question. I shake my head; Legolas does not need one, and if I know him at all he has one hidden on his person in any case. These streets might be dangerous, but they are not dangerous enough for me to worry about my elf.

The house we are led to is small and ramshackle, barely more than a hut, but it is clear before we ever reach the door that there is no one at home. It is dark and silent, empty, and Hob hammers at the door for a long time before accepting what we all know to be true. There is no one here.

"He is likely out drinking," Sig tells us, wiping his nose again upon his sleeve. "He likes to drink."

It is barely midday, no matter how dim and oppressive it is here, and I wonder that a man might be drinking at this time of day. Then I look at where he lives – imagine his life might be like – and I do not wonder any longer.

"We could go in," I suggest with a shrug. I am quite sure that I could break this door into splinters in moments, and Legolas could get in through that window quite easily, but Hob shakes his head.

"If I am going to tell a man that his brother has been murdered," he says, "I will not do so after breaking into his home. We will set a guard, he will have to return eventually."

"I will keep watch for him," Sig offers. He shrugs one tiny shoulder, leans against the dog who stands solidly against the extra weight. Moss is panting and it makes him look as though he grins… he seems like rather a happy dog, now that he is not trying to eat me. "I have little else to do, and Wynn was my friend. He was kind to me."

Hob considers this, thinks about it for a long time.

"The men I was with," he says to the boy. "The tall one is Larke, the red-headed one is Ren. They will be in the Magister's office on the third, you know it?"

Sig nods enthusiastically, excited to be given such an important task, and his narrow face breaks into a wide grin.

"I will hide away, sir. None will see me. I will come when Edgar is home, I will not even speak to him! You can rely on me sir; I have keen eyes and I can stay awake for a long time."

Hob has a look about him then, and it is something resembling sadness and something almost like pity. The boy's enthusiasm is heart-breaking… I wonder if he has ever been trusted with anything so important before. I wonder who is in his life for him to be so eager to please, so desperate for our approval. The constable shakes it off though, and nods shortly.

"It is an important task boy, and you must take it very seriously."

"I will, sir," Sig straightens, and his face is very serious but very bright. "And sir… I think you should have white cloaks."

He grins hugely and dashes away to squirrel himself somewhere. I do not see where he goes, I barely even see him leave, but Hob watches him go with a strange look. Perhaps our solider recognises this boy… perhaps our constable _was_ this boy. He shakes it off again and turns, heads back the way that we have come.

"We should return to the Rookery," he tells us. "There is little else to be found here this morning."

And we follow him, and none of us speak for a long time, but Legolas and I fall behind and the elfling gives me a look. He is bright and intense, focussed as he so rarely is of late.

Legolas' madness is all but gone, but it is still there in his shadow… it follows him, lingers around him like mist and dances on the edge of his consciousness. He sometimes forgets where he is, what he is doing, why we are here, but right now he is completely present. This is unpleasant business but it is good for him, and I am willing to put up with murder and this awful reminder that all is not well in Minas Tirith… that the city is not healed or completely right yet. I will come to know sad little orphan boys living in squalor, and I will traipse around dangerous streets. I will do all of this for the elfling because I have much to make up for, and this is what he needs right now.

I quirk my head at him, a question, because he has something to say and I would hear it. He waits a while, but eventually he speaks as I knew he would.

"I think you could have beaten the dog in a fair fight," he says to me quite seriously, and I groan. I shove him, and I quicken my steps until I am walking with Hob instead of the elf. Sometimes, I do not know why I bother with him.

~{O}~

"So," Aragorn addresses me as soon as we are back together again. "How has your day gone?"

We have – naturally – completely ignored our instructions from Master Gowry, and have come to locate Aragorn for lunch. Legolas can track down anyone when he sets his mind to it, and we have found both he and Arwen in a rather large receiving room. Lunch is laid out, although not for us, and Arwen squeals like a young girl when she sees Legolas. The two are embracing and babbling in their own tongue like children.

"Well," I tilt my head, helping myself to bread as soft and light as down. "I have been here less than a day and seen a dead man, been attacked by a dog… Legolas has fallen out with the household staff already. It has gone well enough."

Aragorn grins and takes me by the elbow, leads me to some chairs set before a huge fireplace, and we sit as the elves continue to catch up. Arwen is beautiful in blue – naturally – with dark hair cascading down about her shoulders. I am quite sure that I will be able to greet her properly at some point, but for now she is laughing at something Legolas has said and I might as well have evaporated. They are very old friends, and they have not seen one another for a long time. I am happy to wait.

I recount the events of the morning and more refreshments are added to the table as though by ghosts. I am very hungry, so I slip away to fill a plate, but I talk the whole of the way and Aragorn listens patiently.

I skip over the details of the majority of our morning, because it really did peak quite early. I spend little time on the endless parade of instantly forgettable faces – because the _edain_ really do look alike to me – or the tour of the Rookery. I breeze past a painfully dull lesson on mannish laws that I am certain Legolas slept through – because he sleeps with his eyes open and it is sometimes difficult to tell – and I almost forget to mention the scintillating hour of my life that has been taken up with a complete inventory of their stores.

I give him the briefest of detail on all of this, because it is our trip to the second circle that is most interesting by far.

"That circle will be the death of me," he sighs once I am done with both my tale and my lunch. "They refuse aid, they accept no governance. I have sent endless people in with a view to locate their elders, but they are met with little more than silence. Someone is in charge down there, someone is keeping things running, but I do not know who it might be or how to speak to them. It is as though they are completely separate from the rest of the city."

"The Whitecloaks are better than I had expected," Legolas says. He and Arwen are done, and I stand to receive a fond embrace from her just as the elfling slumps into a chair, passing a huge apple backwards and forwards between scarred hands. Aragorn raises his eyes to the ceiling.

"They might be _Greencloaks_ , Legolas…" he starts, but the elfling carries on.

"They are well disciplined, for _edain_ , and they seem to know what they are doing."

He pours himself some tea, focusses on it very seriously and seems to lose interest in the conversation almost instantly. Aragorn clears his throat, and Legolas looks at him out of the side of his eye.

"So… have you any suggestions?" he asks patiently. I settle back, because I have my own suggestions but I am certain they are the same as the elfling's. He has greater experience, more knowledge of some things, and I will see what he has to say first.

"The council must not have so much say in their governance, Estel," he says honestly. "You should appoint a Magistrate of the Constabulary and be done with it; they are being held back and stifled. Your army was not run by committee, and neither should those who uphold your laws. You should have divisions, and you should have men who patrol in conjunction with the City Guard; the Whitecloaks will not gain trust and respect with your people if they are not seen. And you should speak to this Hob fellow; he is remarkably astute, for a man."

"You should visit the Rookery," I add. "I am not sure that they know what is expected of them, in truth. Oh, and they are not being paid yet… that will go a very long way in matters."

"The council have not yet decided on their wages," Aragorn tells me flatly.

"Well whatever you decide, you owe them three weeks of it. They all made sure we were quite aware of it, too. Men like that have families, my friend, and families need feeding."

"You are the king, Estel," Legolas says, and his tone is surprisingly cool. "You cannot blame the council for indecision – it is for you to ensure they do what they are there for, and it is for you to put measures in place if they do not."

I am shocked by the reprimand, I will admit, and I look to Aragorn expecting anger but I see only a flicker of shame. I am reminded then that Legolas was once this King's teacher: his protector, his mentor… occasionally his reader of bedtime stories. Sometimes I forget what a complicated history they have.

"Settle a figure with them," Aragorn instructs, recovering. "It will be paid by the end of this week. And Legolas… I do not wish to rule the way Thranduil has ruled; I do not _have_ to. I am trying for something else."

"I know, Estel," Legolas softens his tone, but then his face brightens just a little bit and the moment passes. "Perhaps you should look more carefully at your council. What better time for a few retirements?"

He stands quickly, dusts off his hands and leans forward to kiss Arwen lightly on the cheek.

"I will meet you back on the sixth, Gimli," he tells me. He bows slightly toward Aragorn, but he gives us no time at all to ask where he is going in such a hurry. In fact, he leaves us all rather surprised by his sudden exit, but I am not surprised for long. I scowl deeply into my tea, Aragorn is still watching after him, and Arwen is watching me.

"You realise he is going to change his clothing," Aragorn sighs, and I snort – because he is not wrong – but it is not just that; Legolas has taken all he can… he cannot wear his mask for a moment longer. He needs an hour on his own in the air and I know it, I can feel it; he is starting to forget where he is and what he is meant to be doing. He is being deafened to distraction but he is learning to control it, and I must trust in that. I say nothing, but I think perhaps I do not need to.

"Gimli," Arwen murmurs softly, and Eru I had hoped to avoid this… I know that tone of hers. She is looking at me with that cursed elven heaviness as though she can read my thoughts, skewering me to the chair. I do not look up. I cannot meet her eyes, because I do not wish to speak to her. I do not even wish to think about this.

She leans across, rests a soft and elegant hand upon my own lumpish and clumsy one.

"Just say that he is well," she says softly, and I shake my head. I shake it harder than is probably necessary. I realise then that I am acting like a surly child and so I raise my gaze. She is worried; I am not the only person who cares for the elfling, and so I must be truthful and grant her the consideration she deserves.

"He is not," I tell her honestly. "But he makes a good pretence at it, and that is encouraging; when I left him in winter he could barely hold a conversation. Legolas endures. He will be well, my lady, and if he is not I shall badger him until he is – even if it is simply to keep me quiet."

She smiles, but it is a thin and worried thing. Arwen is a kind person, a strong person… she seems very soft and fragile but she is no such thing, and I like her very much. Legolas and the children of Elrond are siblings in all but blood, so I put my most certain face on. I smile and I turn my hand so that I grip hers.

"He has come through worse than this."

"You are a good friend Gimli," she tells me, but this time my smile turns stiff and false. It sits on my face like it is made of wood, and I do not know how I should look right now.

I am not a good friend at all… I am why he is like this.

I clear my throat suddenly, look around and see that Aragorn is watching me very closely. He has witnessed our exchange without a single word, has paid very close attention but has not said anything at all. He is shrewd, attentive, and he meets my accusatory glare without flinching.

He leans back, distancing himself, and I think he knows I am about to change the subject. He gives me leave, tells me that he knows what I do, but I am not sure that I needed his permission.

"Why on Arda did you send someone to set us a schedule?" I ask him. "How could you _possibly_ have thought that would go well?"

And he is still and silent for a moment, but then he laughs. It is a huge laugh – free and without any guile – and the moment is broken as though it never happened at all.

"My only regret," he says, still grinning to himself, "is that I was not there to witness it."

TBC

* * *

 **A day early, as promised!**

 **My usual thanks to everyone for the alerts, follows and especially the reviews! This fic seems to be getting a lot of love, which makes me very happy indeed :)**

 **My original plan was to have these chapters WAY shorter... like, 3k at best, but I think I'm just going to have to accept that I'm not capable of it. It has left some of them ending in really weird places, I'm not going to force the issue if it's just not going to work, but I now must revise my number of banked chapters to one a bit lower. HOWEVER, the chapters you will get are the way they wanted to be written, rather than chopped to pieces, which is how they were.**

 **Hope you like the chapter, I'd love to hear from you (did I mention how much I like reviews?) and I'm going to leave you with the subject of a conversation I am having with my housemate at the moment:**

 **I have just informed her that it freaks me out if I ever leave my washing on the line overnight, to the point where I don't really want to touch the clothes the next day when I collect them. As though the dark makes ANY DIFFERENCE to anything whatsoever. The more we talk about it, the more aware I am of how irrational this is. Anyone else out there have anything that weirds them out that's as odd as this? Anyone at all? ...please?**

 **Have a great weekend everyone :)**

 **MyselfOnly**


	4. Chapter 4

I am fetched by Larke, the tall and young constable, who seems to take it quite personally that we circumvented him this morning. He seems like a very serious young man – very gaunt and pale beneath his dark hair, with black eyes that look strange and unsettling. He is waiting outside the King's House, his hood up and his cloak pulled tightly against the wind, and when I emerge he casts his glance about for the elfling but I walk past him.

"He will find us," I inform him certainly, and he hurries to catch up with me. He is meant to be the guide, but I am certain I know where I am going and I do not need him to show me the way. I can see the moment in which he decides not to walk ahead of me but rather by my side, and I say nothing on it; he is itching to ask me questions, and we have a good walk ahead of us and no elf to put him off. I stand it only until the livery.

"Say what you have to say lad, or stop fidgeting. It is annoying."

He clears his throat, embarrassed, and starts to walk a bit more certainly. He is very straight, very slender, but he is not as young as he seems – not in his heart, not where it counts. I think perhaps I am only cross with him because of who he reminds me of.

He is not Calder. He looks nothing like him, acts nothing like him, but the last time I was here I met a young man in the same way as this. He was too young to be so bloodstained, and I think perhaps Larke reminds me of this… reminds me of my friend, who I have not seen and will not see for a long time. I wonder where he is for a moment, but then I stop myself. There is little point in torturing myself over such things.

"I apologise, my Lord, it is just… there are rumours. Of you and the elven prince. Are they true?"

"You may have to more specific," I sigh. "I thought you were to remain at the Magister's office, in any case?"

"Ren has remained," he dismisses. "It is a very small office, and he enjoys onions a little too much. Guiding you was my job…"

He sounds peevish, as though he has been reprimanded for not predicting that we would arrive early this morning, but I brush it off. We reach the cut, the huge spur of rock that slices through the city like a knife, and when we walk through it we are silent. There are torches to light our way but it is eerie; our steps echo and there is a constant drip of water, the sunlight all but forgotten in the damp and chill of the stone. It bothers me not, but I have come to realise that only dwarves find such things tolerable. Even Larke hurries his steps, and eventually we reach the light again.

"Captain Hob says that you are to advise the King," Larke says, once we are back in the light and air. "That you have his ear, and are here to tell him how we are lacking."

"He is right," I agree, "but also wrong; we are not here to say how you are lacking, but rather _what_ is lacking. Legolas says that the council are stifling you, and I am not sure that I disagree. I would hear your take on it."

Larke seems surprised, speechless and pleased all at the same time. He falls into silence but I had not really expected a response; this lad is a soldier, and soldiers are not generally asked their opinion on things. I let his silence fall around me, I pay little mind to it, because it is his silence and I should allow him some moment for thought. I am paying more mind to things around me, and it is only because of this that I realise we are being followed. Had Legolas been here I am certain that I would have known long ago, but he is not. Battle has broken me, made me far too vigilant, and so I see it without him in any case.

I grab Larke's elbow – I pull him into an alley between a cold smithy and a building of unknown purpose, hushing him into silence when he looks at me with question. There is a whisper of a shadow: a sylph, a jagged change in the natural darkness between the buildings, but I know who is here. I know who has followed us.

"Boy," I frown, "why are you here?"

Sig startles, frightened, and he cowers in the way of those used to being shouted at or treated badly. He recovers quickly enough once he sees that it is me, and his eyes widen so that I can see the whites all around.

"Sir," Sig breathes, relieved, and dances from foot to foot in agitation. The lad is anxious, he has his hand fisted into Moss' pelt as though it grounds him. "Edgar is home. Something is wrong!"

"You were meant to go to the Magister's office," Larke reprimands, taking in the thin boy and his huge dog.

"Something is _wrong_ , sirs. My Lords. Please, it has to be you… it should be you."

He trails off faintly, but I see something in his eyes. He does not trust the others, he does not think enough of them. Perhaps we should have made sure he met Larke and Ren, but Sig seems to trust me better than the constables he was meant to report to. It was a mistake, but I have no option but to follow him now. I look to Larke, who somehow manages to read the meaning of it.

"I am going with you," he tells me certainly, with a frown.

"Someone needs to tell Hob where we have gone."

"You cannot go alone, the prince is not here."

"You are quite right," I agree. I put two fingers in my mouth, whistle a piercing shriek that has Larke and the boy cringing. "Now he is on his way, so _go and find Captain Hob_."

Larke looks at me doubtfully, as though I am mad in some way, but after a while there is an answering whistle from somewhere distant. It carries on the wind – far away indeed – but Legolas can travel faster than anyone else I know. This time Larke shakes his head, his face softening into a baffled smile as he rakes his hand through his hair. He looks far better when he smiles – less severe, far younger.

"The two of you are strange," he tells me, and then he is serious again. He straightens, nods to me.

"I will fetch him and Ren – we will meet you there."

And so he is gone, and I am left with a boy and a dog. I look to the lad – so small and dirty, so anxious – and I make a gesture for him to lead.

In a flash he is gone, and I follow upon his heels.

~{O}~

Legolas joins us on the third level, although I know he has been running by our side since the fifth. He is more comfortable in the high places, these buildings are built so close to one another that it is nothing at all for him to travel across the rooftops, and in truth; I am more comfortable with him up there as well. An elven watch is a comforting thing indeed, and I would rather Legolas watch my back where he can see it properly.

Aragorn was right – he has changed his clothing – and he looks far more comfortable in his greens and browns with his hair braided. He has not armed himself completely – not with blades and bow, not the way he usually is – but he has a long knife at his hip and I am sure there are others hidden about his person. It is more than enough for an elf such as he is, and I feel very aware of the fact that I have only the blade that Hob gave me.

I have never been fond of the weapon; it is not what I am best with. I have shorter arms than most of my opponents and the knife is a short range weapon; you must get fairly close to be able to use one, and for me that is close indeed. An axe makes use of the fact that I am normally stronger, usually more powerful in my upper body and in my arm. I fidget for only a moment, and Legolas passes me my hatchet that he has fetched at some point. I know not how; we have not been apart for all that long.

My axe would have been better – it is a good weapon, and I am very fond of it – but I cannot run around Minas Tirith with a huge battle-axe strapped to my back in the same way that Legolas cannot stride around with silver knives and a full quiver. The hatchet is better than a knife, and I take it thankfully.

We run quickly through the fifth level, and I am starting to get winded as we reach our goal. This city is huge, and I have just run through the whole of it. I have become out of shape this winter.

Once we reach Edgar's ramshackle home I understand the boy's urgency, although we are too late. Sig makes a sound of dismay and runs ahead of us, but Legolas and I approach more cautiously. The house is all but ruins, and there is no point in rushing into things.

It has been burned, and the fire has been quick and hot enough to ruin it utterly but still leave it standing. The roof is gone, collapsed into the carcass, but the bones of the building still stand. Our journey here was not long enough for a building to burn down entirely – the flames are gone and the charred wood ticks as we approach, the heat melting across my face as I near. Legolas crouches by the ruin.

"A learned man can refine oil so that it would burn this way," he suggests, picking up a charred hunk of wood and throwing it absently. "It has damaged everything, ruined what was inside, but this fire was quick and hot… not natural."

"Obviously it was not natural," I frown, and I watch as Sig digs through the roasting wreckage with short pained sounds. He is burning his hands, but he still digs through the bones of the building. I call out: "Sig come out of there! No one was inside this house when it burned."

The boy turns and looks at me, and there is such a look of grief and sadness upon him that I feel my heart clench. I do not think that he has many friends, and he has already lost one tonight. My words kindle such hope, such a blind belief that it makes me scowl. I mutter through my beard: "come away lad, come here."

He does so, stumbling and lost, and I am astounded when he slams into my side. Rake thin arms wrap around my waist and I have no idea what to do – none at all – but at least the elfling has the wisdom to keep his mouth shut. In the end I ruffle his hair a bit more roughly than I had meant to.

"Your friend is not in there, lad," I murmur, and I am horrified to hear a snuffle in the approximate direction of my armpit. Durin's beard, he is crying again, and I look to the elfling for help but the coward is gone. He clambers into the shifting hot and blackened shell of the house, and the dog pads after him. Of course the dog follows him… all animals follow him.

"This place has been ransacked, Gimli," he calls out to me, and I peel Sig away from my side with as much care as I am able. He is pliant and allows it, and I ruffle his hair again awkwardly as I pass, joining Legolas as he picks through the ruin. "Whoever set this fire was looking for something."

"Boy," I turn to Sig, "why did you call us here? Was it the fire?"

"No, sir, my Lord," he sniffs, and wipes his nose upon his sleeve again. I am giving him a handkerchief the moment I am able to. "There was no fire, not when I left here, but Edgar came home and then there were men. They were shouting something terrible, causing a right ruckus, and I did not know what to do… I ran to you as quickly as I could, I swear it."

"Who were they?" Legolas raises his voice slightly from within the ruin, but he has found nothing and so he comes out to join us. He smells of wood-smoke, and it stings the back of my throat.

"I… I do not know, my Lord," Sig stutters, and Legolas fixes him with that glare of his. Adults quaver beneath that look, grown men who have seen battle, and this boy is no match at all. He sinks back, looks about for his dog to reassure himself.

"You are lying," Legolas observes, as though he is passing comment on something of vague interest. "Why do you lie to us?"

"I am sorry," he says in a small voice, steps back even further. Legolas is scaring him, and Eru… he is moments from crying again! The boy is quick to tears, that is for certain, and I take a step toward him just as he takes a step back.

"Boy, you need not be afraid of us, but you must speak the truth."

"I cannot… you do not understand, I am sorry!"

"Sorry for what?" but he is gone. I have one last glimpse of a pale and tear streaked face and then he darts into an alley across from the burned house. I follow after him like a fool, because in my old age I am starting to find a soft spot for lost children, but by the time I hear Legolas cry out a warning it is too late. I am almost at the deep shadows – the blackness between buildings – but where Sig disappeared there is another that emerges to take his place.

For a moment I am stilled. For just one brief heartbeat I remember another shadow… one that haunted us for a year, that chased and harried and hurt us, that was there every time that we turned around. I see the movement in the dark, I see something come from the black, and I freeze. It is just long enough to have me caught unawares.

I am spun around to face the elfling, and there is an arm braced across my neck and a blade at my throat. A thief – a wretched cutpurse has caught me – but almost as soon as I think it I discard the thought. Whoever has caught me was silent and still enough that Legolas did not notice his presence. He was fast enough to catch me at all, swift enough that I have not even seen his face, and the arm that holds me is strong as iron and still as the mountain. His hand does not so much as shake, which is a good thing, because the blade is razor sharp. I feel the sting of it and I hold myself as still as I can.

I look to Legolas, who is even stiller. The elf has frozen entirely, as though he is carven from stone and has no breath or heartbeat, but his eyes are the most dangerous I have seen them in a long time. He is enraged, close to losing his control, and he scares me when he is like this. There is nothing that I recognise in him, nothing that I can connect with, because when an elf is truly angry… truly beyond reasoning, it is far too apparent how different they are to us.

"Release him," Legolas says, and his voice is calm and devoid of any emotion at all. He speaks clearly, making sure that every word is heard, because he means every one of them. "Let him go, or I will cripple you – I will break every single bone in your hand and arm. Harm him, and I will peel your skin away with your own blade."

I feel the arm tighten at my throat, feel a flinch, and I think this man rather brave. I think I might have messed myself had I been him. I believe every word that the elf has said, I certainly know that he is capable of it, and I think perhaps my captor realises it too. The arm is gone from my neck, I am released and shoved forward, and I go to Legolas' side as quickly as I am able.

I rub my throat, Legolas grips my shoulder tightly as I reach him, and I think it is more for his own comfort than mine… he is rather twitchy about anything happening to me, of late. Whilst I do not like him being anxious in any way, his protection comes in quite useful at times.

I start to feel a flicker of annoyance then; I have been caught like a novice and it rankles a little. I rub my throat and glare at the intruder, and Legolas continues to stand as though he might snap into violence at any second. It is all rather tense.

"Who are you?" I demand, and I do not quash my anger but rather let it settle into something smouldering and strong. Our visitor is completely covered in a cloak and cowl and I cannot make out any part of him, none at all. After a while though he pulls his hood back, and he is younger than I had expected but he is no boy.

He is narrow faced and clean shaven, his hair a tangled mop of auburn, and his eyes clever; green and dancing. He is very slender, but it is the slenderness of someone quick and agile rather than thin and awkward. As I watch him he shifts easily and leans against a doorway. He is far too confident, far too relaxed.

"Your name," I insist, my tone flat and warning. He is making me cross. This time when I ask his eyes rove over the alley, skim everything quickly and then settle on something just to my right.

"I am Shutter," he tells me finally, and I glance to my right to where a shutter hangs half off a window.

"You have made that up," I accuse, scowling, and he lifts one shoulder in the slightest shrug. I huff, fold my arms about my chest. "Well in that case, Master Shutter, I am Thorin Oakenshield… no, I am Durin. The first Durin. This is my friend…" I gesture toward Legolas, trying to think of something clever as quickly as I can, but he beats me to it.

"Galadriel," he says, his tone as flat and dry as the sands of Khand, and I nearly lose my composure.

"Galadriel," I confirm. This whole encounter has become a bit ridiculous.

Shutter grins, quick and bright, and shoves himself away from the door – steps forward until he is in the centre of the alley. He reminds me of Idhren, just a little bit, although they are leagues apart from one another.

"I bring you an invitation," he says, and grants us a rather florid bow. "My master has sent me to you; he would have an audience if you are willing, although I urge you to be as willing as you are able. There are things happening here, things that we do not care for at all, and he would share a few secrets should you grant your take on them."

"And who might your master be?" I slant my eye, cant my head. "Perhaps it is Lord Cobblestone. Maybe Master Puddle. Sir Pile of Wood?"

Shutter snorts, a quirk of a laugh, but turns serious for just a moment. He flicks a hand, dismissive and humble at the same time.

"As Denethor was Steward of this city," he says, "so is my master Steward of the Second. At least until things… stabilise."

I feel Legolas shift although I do not see him; the elfling is too seasoned and practised to be seen reacting in any way. Eru, we have found a way to reach whoever is running this circle of the city! We have been here less than a day and we have done more than Aragorn has since he took the crown – I cannot _wait_ to be smug about this.

"We are not following you right now," I say. "We are not complete idiots."

"Of course not," Shutter waves away. "Leave, think on things. If you would hear us, then we will meet in the Shod Cob on the third circle by ninth bell tonight, but if you do not come alone then you will be waiting for a long time. We meet on neutral ground – on a circle of scholars and tradesmen – but we will be watching from the fifth. We will know if you do not come alone."

Shutter nods and reaches back, shucks his hood back over his face and he is turned back into shadow… a slip of darkness, a dart of quiet melting into the grey as though he is made of shadows. It is quite the skill he has learned – to be a whisper of a person.

I look to the elfling, who has remained perfectly silent through all of this. Legolas has a habit of letting me do all of the talking, all of the time, and although I have accused him of simply wanting to seem mysterious, I know that is not the reason for it. Legolas believes that I am better at this sort of thing, and I know that there is some small truth to it.

Legolas – the Legolas that people encounter – can be rude and frightening and simply… he puts people _off_ in some way. They do not speak as freely, the conversation is not fluid or comfortable, everything is terribly stilted... Eru the _staring!_ Legolas might have the reasons for it quite wrong, but it is possibly right that I do all of the talking.

He blinks… that is all, he simply blinks, and I twitch one shoulder. It is an entire conversation in two movements and it is all that I need. I turn to Shutter.

"Galadriel is willing, perhaps," I tell him. "We will discuss it… we might meet you there. What will you do with the boy?"

Shutter looks flummoxed, as if I am accusing him of something horrid.

"We will do nothing with the boy," he says, quite scandalised. "Sig is under our protection."

He crinkles his nose, shakes his head as though disgusted, and I feel a surge of annoyance rise in my chest. He turns away and melts into the shadow of the alley, and I have enough experience in such things not to bother chasing him. He will not be there, and my dignity has taken enough of a battering this afternoon.

I step forward, turn upon my heel to face the elfling, and we both fall silent.

I think and I say some terrible things about elves, and about my elf in particular, but in truth and all honesty there is none that I hold more dear or trust more absolutely than Legolas. We stand here in an alley beside a burned building, the smell of cinders and ash sharp on the air, and we talk without speaking a single word.

Legolas has shed that frightening and impenetrable look – eyes softening from glacier pale to summer blue – and his whole bearing gentles, awakens, focusses. He is my Legolas, the one that I know, and I am glad to see him.

"This has been a very odd day, Gimli," he tells me.

"Perhaps we should have gone to Rohan," I admit. "But our lives are full of things that we should have done, or things we should not. It is often too late before we think of them."

"You think we should go to this meeting?"

I still, I cast my gaze aside, but only because I am thinking.

Why should we meet with this steward? Why should we do anything? Why should we care? Legolas and I are not men, we do not live here, we are not a part of Aragorn's fledgling constabulary. We have been brought here purely to give our opinion on how Aragorn's new Whitecloaks operate and nothing more, and yet here we are… right at the centre of something difficult and unpleasant. Again.

Eru, I have had enough of this sort of thing.

"No-one would think less of us if we passed this over," I tell him. "We could tell Hob about what has happened, let him take over. This is not why we are here, my friend."

"Our mysterious steward has asked for us, and will not speak to Hob," Legolas points out.

I am quiet for a long time, I shift and fidget, and I find myself becoming unaccountably annoyed.

Legolas wishes to go. I do not know why he is asking my take on things if he has no intention on listening to me, and I am going to give in. I am being too permissive. I feel guilty over what happened in the winter, and I think perhaps I am indulging him too much. Usually I would argue with him, usually I would tell him that he is getting himself involved in something he normally would not. I would point all of this out to him, but he cannot trust his mind and he needs something… _anything_ to keep himself focussed on the present. He is getting us both involved in this, and by Mahal's beard I am going to let him.

All of these thoughts run past in a heartbeat, there and then gone, but I am annoyed and I am forgetting myself. I have not kept them to myself… he has heard – or at least, he has heard some of it – and he narrows his eyes in anger. He curls his lip, a silent snarl, but I do not react to it.

"Is that what you think?" he asks, dangerously low. "I experience this link just as you do – you think me so manipulative, to press the matter because I know you feel guilt enough to allow it?"

"Do not snarl at me, Legolas," I scowl at him. "You do not frighten me. Aye, I do think those things, and I think perhaps you let me feel them because it benefits you."

For a second he looks as though I have slapped him, but it is quickly hidden with a flash of anger.

"A dwarf might think it because a dwarf might do it, but elves are not so devious. You do not wish to get involved because after everything that has happened, you are afraid. Do not make it anything more than that, and do not make it my fault. Aye, we would have argued about it before, but we still would have made ourselves a part of things because it is _what we do_. And yes, Gimli," he softens for a moment and sighs, rubs his face tiredly. "Yes, it distracts me. You do not have to come."

"Now you _are_ being an idiot," I snap, and I fold my arms as his face deepens into a scowl. Devious _… afraid?_ I am furious!

"I survived a long time before we met," he says flatly. The calmer his voice becomes, the angrier he is getting. "You think much of yourself, and little of me."

"You survived in a forest in a war where you are far better suited. This is not your world; you have no place in it."

He blinks at me, and a part of me realises that I have gone a step too far but I am too angry to know it. He takes a step back, his face settling into a cool mask, and now I know that I have _definitely_ said something wrong. He never wears that face when it is just he and I on our own, not ever.

"I am not going to stand in a street arguing with you over it," he says tiredly. "Call for me later, or do not. I care not which."

He turns and is gone, slipped into the shadows, and I am so angry with him that I cast about for something to throw but there is nothing, and he is already gone. I know that Legolas will not have left entirely – he will not leave me until I am safely on the streets of the kinder circles – and this makes me even more annoyed still. A younger Gimli would scream about now, would bellow his rage into the air, but this Gimli – the one that has spent a few years now with this awful, awful elf – quashes it all down.

I storm away, furious and muttering beneath my breath, and I almost welcome a mugging. It would certainly give me something to vent my frustrations on. But whether it is luck or perhaps because I look as though I would flatten anyone who tried to stop me right now, I emerge from the circle unscathed.

I feel the moment that Legolas truly leaves me. I feel the brush of him in my mind dissipate, feel the roiling burn of the storm within him drift away, and once it is gone I am calmer.

The walk back up through the city is far longer, and far emptier, and when I finally bump into Larke, Ren and Hob on the fourth level I shout at them for their slow mannish bodies and steam past them as well. They watch after me in surprise, but I do not wait for them and I do not turn back.

 **~{O}~**

"If you are wondering where he is," I snap, "then he is somewhere sulking, or perhaps being murdered. I know not which."

Aragorn blinks at me, his mind taking a moment to catch up on things. I have just stormed into his receiving room, it looks as though he is getting ready for something, and I take a glance out of the window. Mid-afternoon, no later… I have no idea what kings do in the mid-afternoon.

I flop myself down into one of his huge chairs and I scowl at the fireplace, which currently has no fire in it. Perhaps I can coax one to life just by glaring at it.

"Since you brought him up without my asking," Aragorn says carefully, a hint of annoyance at my rude entrance and interruption. "I assume you would like to talk about something?"

"I do not!" I announce airily, then bite out through clenched teeth. "Perhaps… a little."

"I have petitions to hear," he says, "but I have a bit of time. I am not here simply to settle disagreements between the two of you though Gimli, if that is all I am to you then we are not friends."

"That is not why I am here, laddie," I feel all of my anger drain away in an instant. Aragorn is like that. "It is only because you know him better, and I would hear your view on things. We often say things to one another – unkind things, untrue things – but I think this time I have said something I should not. If you disagree though then let him rot; he is being insufferable!"

Aragorn laughs, a soft chuckle, and I am forgiven. He makes a gesture, settles back and I recount our afternoon. In the past I might have kept certain things secret – he probably would not approve of our invitation to a meeting later on – but I know that Aragorn trusts me. He will let me decide what to do and he will not interfere, because I have earned that right, and then I recount our argument, word for word. I remember it very clearly; I have been continuing it in my head the whole of the walk here.

Once I am done he watches me very closely. He is quiet for too long and it makes me itch and fidget, and just as I start to become angry again he speaks.

"Neither of you held back much," he tilts his head, a quirk to his mouth.

"We have said far worse before," I dismiss it with a wave. "I do not think there is anyone who knows how to wound me the way he does, and I provoke him on purpose. I am not fool enough not to recognise that."

He shakes his head slightly – I know that somewhere in his head he is cursing both dwarves and elves – and then he moves on. Aragorn is a keen strategist; he knows when to pick his battles.

"You have not told me much of what happened between you," he says. "In fact, you have told me nothing at all. I have gleaned the most of it for myself and I have not said anything, because I know that you will both speak when you are ready to do so. But although you know Legolas, have known the gift of seeing his heart, you do not know everything. You have not known him for long enough."

"I know that," I scowl, and I get up. I pace, I rap my knuckles lightly against the back of a chair and across the top of a table. "But he speaks so infrequently of the past… barely anything at all. If the damned creature ever got drunk I might have coaxed a few more things out of him by now, but he does not even do that!"

"There is a reason behind it Gimli," Aragorn says softly. "Legolas has not had the life he should have had. All he has known has been darkness and grief and loss; that is not the life of an elf."

And then I realise what I have said, and I tilt my head back and groan aloud.

"And I have said that it is all he is worth, and all he is good for," I huff, annoyed, but I am annoyed with myself. "What a foolish thing to say!"

"It is forgivable because he is _extremely_ annoying," Aragorn says simply, "but do not let him believe it for too long." He stands, continues getting ready to leave. "I think that you are both being far too sensitive. You have just argued over something you would normally have discussed, and you are both above such things. You have a few days before Faramir gets here; I expect to see my friends by the time he arrives, and not whatever you are right now. And Gimli –"

He pauses, and I look up when he does not speak straight away. He looks uncomfortable for a moment, as though he is committing some small betrayal, but then he straightens.

"You should not be so dismissive of his behaviour. You say that you provoke him, but he is master of himself enough not to give in to that temper of his the way that he does. You are worth more than that."

I am stunned for a moment; I have nothing to say. I had not expected such a thing, and I have never thought on it because when Legolas and I argue – truly argue – it can be nasty and cruel but we always forgive one another. Always. It is simply our way. Aragorn thinks that Legolas should curb his temper, but in truth? I do not agree. I have always allowed Legolas to simply be Legolas; I expect nothing more from him, because if he can accept me the way that he does – unfailingly and without question – then I will certainly do the same for him.

Aragorn fastens his sword at his side and does not take his gaze away for a long time. I blink, I feel foolish and stupid, and why is Legolas not here to be reprimanded in this way?

"He already has been," Aragorn says, "in case you are wondering why Legolas has not been told off. He got here a lot quicker than you did."

I cannot help but laugh, and I feel myself settle again. I am still angry, still frustrated, but it is nothing I am not used to, not in truth... it is almost my default state when it comes to Legolas.

"Aragorn, I apologise," I give him my most florid bow, which is awkward and ungainly but he gets what he is given in such things. "We are not friends simply because we both know the same elf, and I have been unfair."

"All I ask is that you learn to knock on doors, Gimli," he smiles, and grips my shoulder tightly. "I have a dressing room but I do not use it. A few minutes earlier and you would have received _quite_ the eye-full."

TBC

* * *

 **Much messing around has been done with this chapter. Kind of bounces around a bit and I apologise in advance for any formatting errors, editing weirdness or bits that could have done with a bit more attention. I'm right in the middle of a family drama after a week where even my stress had stress, and now my computer is playing up (I actually nearly lost the original documents of the Shadow series, as well as all of Steward, and I had an actual mini meltdown)**

 **Needless to say, I am a bit wound up, and I am going to make myself cocktails and turn my phone off and write until I can't remember anything that's going on, because that's super healthy. A review from you guys would really, _really_ help me out here.**

 **So anyway, less of that.**

 **Shutter! My new favourite OC. Sig being an adorable little turncoat, Legolas and Gimli have an argument, and Aragorn is a bit of an exhibitionist. Have you ever tried to write a serious argument but still try to make it a bit funny? After the gloominess of Silence I certainly struggled to keep it a bit lighter, so let me know how I did.**

 **Thanks to all the reviewers from last chapter, I hope I replied to you all but I lost track a bit. I adore you all.**

 **Hope you have great weekend!**

 **MyselfOnly**


	5. Chapter 5

I find myself with a free afternoon, because there is little point in returning to the Rookery when it is just myself. I am also a trifle embarrassed at shouting at Hob and his men, and we are not due to dine for many hours yet. I would usually spend the time with Legolas, but since we are cross with one another I am blessed with a whole afternoon… entire hours, all to myself.

And I have nothing that I might do with them.

How did I spend my time before? What did I do with myself before I had Legolas to look after? I cannot recall it, I truly cannot, and so I think of all of the things I often wish I could do when I cannot.

I take a bath. A long one, with very hot water and oils and soap, and then I read a book. I write a letter to my father that he will not read, and then I write one to the Greenwood as well just to reassure them that Legolas is alive at this point in time. I take a walk, I get woefully lost, and when I find my way back I read again.

Eru, it is boring!

I toss the book onto my bed with a flick of my hand, and I huff through a beard scented with rose petals. I scratch at where my skin has been irritated by the soap, or perhaps by how unaccustomed I am to wearing clothes this soft and scented, and I scowl at the wall. I do not know what has become of me… I cannot spend just a few hours without doing something, anything, whether dangerous or not. I cannot fill an afternoon on my own, I cannot simply sit and read a book without getting itchy.

I am ruined. I am utterly and completely ruined.

I storm through into Legolas' chambers, unsurprised to see that he is not there. I go through his garden and onto his balcony, where the wind is cutting and screams past my ears, and where the sun is setting red across pale stone. I squint into the sharp light and I whistle into the sky – he will hear me wherever he is in the city – and I am frightened out of my skin when there is a whistle back from right above my head.

I make a noise, my knees buckle all by themselves, and I crouch and turn ready for a fight although I have no weapon on me. Legolas is sat on top of the glass roof – or rather braced against it, his backside wedged upon stone. My stomach lurches to see him up there, his hair tangling and knotting in the wind, because we are very high up and that it not a very secure seat. I scowl up at him, and he simply tilts his head. There is softness in his look, tentative and careful, and he hunches his shoulders like a boy, curled upon himself.

I wave at him to come down, and I go inside where it is warmer. He follows me just as I knew he would, but he does not come completely inside, not all of the way. I drag my favourite chair across the flagstone floor with a groaning and screeching of wood that makes his eyelid flicker, I set it to face him where he stands in the doorway, framed by the green. I fold my arms against my chest.

"Well," bite out. "Enough with this nonsense. I will come with you, because I am not a coward."

"I do not want you to come with me," he scowls, and I am doing this all wrong. He has gone from contrite and open to angry and stubborn again, instantly. "I am more than a battle broken archer, and I am not manipulative or completely mad. I do not need you to mind me because you feel guilty… I do not want you here _at all_ if that is the only reason for it."

"I do not think that," I mutter, and this time my gaze drops and my arms fall away to my lap. I am finished with this argument. "That is not why I am here Legolas."

"And I do not think you a coward," he says back, his jaw set but his voice far softer. He glances at me furtively out of the corner of his eye. "You know that, I know that you do. I have said it often enough… you have _seen_ that I do not think that about you... I never would."

"And you know full well that I am not here out of guilt."

"But you are acting out of guilt."

"Aye," I nod. "I am."

"We have spoken about this endlessly, my friend," he sighs, a whisper of sound, and the edges melt away from him completely until he is himself again. "I cannot take that guilt from you, and we cannot be so unbalanced the way that we are. We carry this together but you insist upon bearing the burden of what happened to us alone, and you are different around me now. I know that it is selfish, but I cannot come past this madness, I cannot fight the sea-longing… I cannot untangle myself from the Song or remember how I used to be if I am constantly worrying that you are worrying!"

I am quiet. He says that it is selfish, and he says that I carry the burden alone, but it is not true. I see what he carries and, I cannot help him bear the weight of it. Every day I see it in him.

Legolas is right – we have spoken about this endlessly – and we have been entirely honest with one another no matter how it has hurt, because it is a wound between us that will heal. Legolas has said that he has not yet forgiven me entirely, but it is _what_ I did rather than why I did it. I took his greatest fear – the one thing he was terrified of down to his core – and I forced this damage upon him. I broke him, deep inside, and it was betrayal of the worst kind because I did it to keep him with me. Death is not the end for the elves, in fact it would have been a kindness to let him go. I saved his life, but it was for my own benefit rather than his, and I have admitted as such.

Even so, Legolas loves Arda as no other elf. He walks these lands still and he is grateful for that, and he has said that he might have done things the same had our positions been reversed. It makes _no sense_ that he both forgives and blames me for the same thing. He has asked only for my patience, because we are both mired in conflict and hurt and we both know it – _ai_ , we can even feel it from one another! But it will heal... I know it will heal.

I find a stray thread in my sleeve and I tug at it, picking it until it begins to unfurl.

"You feel the sea-longing?"

"I do," he exhales, as though all of his strength drains out of him in one breath. He comes into the room, sits near me. "I should have told you that. But I cannot be such a burden to you as I am now; I never have been before."

"You are not a burden to me," I scowl, still picking at my sleeves. He reaches over and stops my hands, and I focus on his – pale and long fingered, scarred and broken.

"Then do not treat me as if I am one, and treat me as you always have. I will not remember who I was if you act as though Legolas died, and I am someone else… someone far different to the elf that you first met."

"But you are not him," I raise my eyes. "Not entirely. It is difficult."

"And I must see it when you look at me, and I must watch you punish yourself constantly, and so we must both do something difficult." He narrows his eyes, and there is a slight smile that raises at the corner of his mouth. "This is not how grown warriors talk to one another, you realise. Perhaps we should braid one another's hair, since we are quarrelling like young girls."

"You could not even get a comb through your hair," I snort. He smiles, and Eru he burns all of the fight out of me with that smile of his. Faint and gentle and true… rare, when he means it, and it is the greatest weapon in his arsenal against me. I wonder if he realises how powerful that smile of his truly can be.

"I am still cross with you," I tell him, but I have lost almost all of the force behind my words. I say it simply because I am stubborn, and will not be manipulated just because an elf has smiled.

"You are not," he says certainly, and I have no response to that. He sits back further in his seat, and he looks relaxed and at peace for a while. He is clenching and unclenching his hands though, and it is a habit he has learned since last spring. At first it was because his hands ached, and now it is an unconscious gesture of what happens in his heart – like the twitching of a cat's tail when they are conflicted. He is thinking on something, and does not wish to speak first now that we are reconciled.

"Simply say it, Legolas," I sigh, and he looks at me out of the corner of his eye again. I make an exaggerated gesture, a prompt for him to speak, and he rolls his eyes.

"Are we going to the meeting, or are we not?" he bites out.

"We are going," I bite right back.

"Then that is settled," he finishes, and then does a very poor job of hiding his smile.

"But only because I wish to," I scowl at him. "You need not come."

I am an orc if I will let him have the last word on the matter, and he is sensible enough to let me have it.

~{O}~

"So I have seen a dead man, been almost eaten by a dog, _and_ threatened by assassins today," I am saying to Aragorn and Arwen. "And now I go to a secret meeting in a tavern with the self-proclaimed Steward of the Second, and all I take with me is that thing…" I wave my hand vaguely toward Legolas, who scowls but does not look up. "This is meant to be a relaxing break with my friends."

"Would you really have skinned him?" Arwen crinkles her nose at Legolas, whose face falls studiously blank because I think he truly would have. He skirts the matter and reaches across the table for the potted strawberries, because the rest of the food might as well be invisible to him whilst they are there.

"You are being very restrained," Aragorn tells me, and he sounds a trifle accusatory. He is sat with his elbows upon the table – which is not very kingly of him – and his eyes are alight with interest. I have recounted the tale again for Arwen's benefit, and now he has time to pay it full attention. "I have been searching for this man for a long time, and you have only been here a day."

"I had every intention of being smug about it," I sigh sadly, "but it seems a petulant thing to do now."

"Gimli is above petulance," Legolas says airily, licking sweetness from his fingers. "He is far above all mortal weakness."

Aragorn reaches over and moves the tray of bread rolls before I can throw one, then my knife, and he gives Legolas a look that tells him to mind himself. We are still a little raw with one another, but the elfling has switched his moods yet again and has the wind in his heart. He is hard work when he is like this.

"I have told Hob Faengolen that we are meeting at ten bells rather than nine," Legolas says. "A small untruth, but it gives us an hour alone, and if anything goes awry then there will be others coming." I take a moment to translate what he has said. _Faengolen_ … 'white cloak'. I roll my eyes.

"You cannot simply _name_ people Legolas," I groan. He ignores me as though I have not spoken.

"It also means that we can report back straight away - he will be arriving just as we are leaving - and we will tell him what we have learned, and then we can be done with this. Gimli is right; this is not for us to become involved in."

I am stunned into silence. I think perhaps I would be kinder to him after that statement if he would stop being so antagonistic.

"You seem remarkably quiet on the matter," I turn to Aragorn. "I had expected you to insist upon us taking guards. I thought we might have to sneak out of a window."

The King of Gondor snorts like the ranger he truly is, since he is with his friends and need make no pretence at matters. He has nothing to say to that, and so Arwen takes over.

"My husband might be many things, friend Gimli," she smiles, amused, "but he is not an idiot. He knows you would both sneak out of a window, and our windows are rather high up. He has plans for the three of you once Faramir gets here and they do not involve broken legs."

"I would not break a leg climbing out of a window," Legolas sounds mortified. "I have climbed out of many windows."

"That might be true, mighty Prince of a Thousand Windows," Aragorn points at where Legolas has strawberry on his tunic, "but you are also guests here. It looks badly on me. Go to your meeting, and try not to skin anyone or start any fights, or get kidnapped or hurt at all, and come and find me afterward. I would be in disguise and coming with you if I had any choice in the matter; it is very exciting!"

"And dangerous and inappropriate," Arwen adds, her smile fixed and frozen and thick with warning. Aragorn deflates, makes a gesture that only partially agrees, but concedes in any case.

"Do nothing foolish," he instructs finally.

"I can promise only to try," I say quite seriously. Aragorn gives me a pained look and I smile, and when he turns to Legolas he is met with an innocent expression, as though the elfling has passed every one of his many days in complete danger avoidance. He shakes his head.

"Neither of you are worth all of this trouble," he sighs.

~{O}~

"This would be far more entertaining if we _had_ needed to sneak out of a window," Legolas says with a mournful tone. "Going to a secret meeting but walking out of the front door does not feel right."

"You complain that no one believes you sensible," I point out. "You complain at great length about it, and then you say such things. We should be taking this seriously."

"I am taking it seriously," he gripes. "And we did not need to leave so early, it is only just past eight bells."

"It is halfway between eight and nine, and I refuse to arrive without any breath left to me. Besides, you might get to sneak around just as you wished."

By the gatehouse there is a gathering of men in cloaks, and – although they are not white – I recognise them easily enough.

"I do not think they believed your 'small untruth'," I grumble. "Perhaps we have a reputation."

"These _edain_ are smarter than most," Legolas agrees with a disapproving tone. I cannot see him very well, but the moon is clear tonight and all elves have a strange pale light about them, as though moon and starlight seek them out. It makes it rather difficult to hide them at times, especially in a city with no bushes to leap into.

Luckily it is not the first time that either of us have had to sneak past men… it is not even the first time that we have had to sneak past this particular gatehouse. There is a low section of wall that is not guarded, and we make a line straight for it only to find more men stood there waiting.

"You are out walking late," comes a voice, and Legolas hisses in annoyance. "Or perhaps you are early. Ten bells is a way off yet."

"Captain Hob!" I turn, plastering on a falsely pleasant face as the elfling mutters something truly vile. "We thought to take the air before our meeting."

"Do me the dignity of speaking the truth," Hob tells me. "I have captained soldiers for years, and soldiers are more accomplished liars than you are."

Legolas snorts in agreement and I elbow him as discreetly as I can.

"You will not follow us," Legolas speaks up, and I cringe. He has finally broken his silence, and Hob looks at him with narrowed eyes.

"My Lord, you speak," he notes with feigned surprise. "I had thought perhaps you did not know the common tongue."

" _Henion din_ ," Legolas murmurs, soft and cold, and this time I turn and give him a very serious look. His gaze flickers to mine, softens, promises that he will behave. "I understand you well enough," he repeats, and there is a whole world of meaning there. He might like Hob, he has said it more than once, but he does not trust him. It will be a while, I think, before Legolas trusts men again.

"Either we go alone, or we do not go at all," I say. "Our violent little thief was rather clear on that."

"Then you do not go at all." Hob tells us.

Legolas turns obediently as if to leave. I grab his arm and turn him back around again.

"For what reason?" I am exasperated. "The King knows what we do, he has no concern about it!"

"With every respect due to my King, his job is to be King. Mine is the safety of this city, and you are a guest… you are not even a man. Do not presume to come here in the guise of advisor, and then lie to me in the course of one of my own investigations. It is rude and insulting."

"Faengolen is correct," Legolas turns to me. "We should go."

 _"_ _What did he just call me?"_

"Legolas," I grab his arm again, because I know… I _know_ he is simply going to jump over a different section of wall. The elfling stops again, returns to my side again, sighs heavily at being hauled into position like a horse. I turn back to the scandalised captain, because we are starting to run short on time. "We apologise, we meant no disrespect; Legolas and I are accustomed to doing things on our own, and in our own way. We had every intention of handing this back to you after the meeting and having nothing further to do with it. We have had quite enough excitement of late."

Captain Hob narrows his eyes, glances at the elfling for confirmation but Legolas is being obstinate, and has gone back to being silent. It is better this way, perhaps. Hob seems mollified, and I push now that I can see a chance at success.

"They said they would be watching us from the fifth level – if you follow then we will simply be spending an evening in a tavern. I can drink far better ale in the King's House, and Legolas dislikes taverns, so if you wish for us to learn something then let us go. If you do not, speak now and save us a walk down five circles… I have done nothing but walk up and down this city today and I grow weary of it."

The captain thinks a while longer, long enough to have me itching for an answer, and I see the moment that he concedes. His shoulders drop just a fraction, and he inches to one side very slightly.

"We will leave the fifth at ten bells, no later," he tells us. "If you are murdered before then, it will be no fault but your own."

I nod my thanks just as Legolas barges right past, and I quicken my steps to catch up with him.

"Why must you antagonise him?" I ask once we are safely through. "You say that you like him."

"I do not think he likes elves very much," Legolas shrugs.

"You give him little reason to think otherwise!"

"I have known him only a day, it is hardly my fault; he disliked elves already. I am not here to form friendships with men who do not want them."

"Aye, but you do wish to play at constable Legolas, and for that you must have his respect. Or at the very least he must not hate you."

"I will consider it," he sniffs, and then he is silent again. Once we reach the fifth circle we both naturally fall into a slow run, and we make up the time we lost arguing with Hob. We slow again by the third, and we spend a while outside the Shod Cob simply watching.

It is a surprisingly large and well-constructed building, most certainly built during the reconstruction of the city. Someone with money has settled here, and the tavern stands independent of the stone that so many of these buildings are built into. I am sure that the foundations dig deeply, that there are rooms and cellars beneath where things are stored, but everything else stands proud of the mountain. It is large and brightly lit, there are even boxes of flowers outside, and there are somewhat rickety tables out here where some men brave the cold and sit with their drinks in the open air.

The men here are tradesmen and scholars, because this circle is of trade and learning. It is odd, to be only one circle above such darkness and poverty, but these are not rich men: their clothes are well patched and threadbare, although clean, and they have the look of men who have little, but are happy with what they have. They are fed, they have money for good ale, and they stand and talk and laugh with one another with no animosity. They are friends, neighbours. This is a good place. But it is well that we have stood to watch, because not every person here is the same.

There is one man on the outside of the light, nursing a cup of ale on his own. His hood is pulled too far over his face, he is too still, and because of it he stands out. There is another that leans against the gate post, and he has a pipe but he has not smoked it since we have been here. He also watches too closely, and he does not belong either. I see two more, and Legolas points out a third in the darkness of the alley where I cannot see as clearly.

The building is watched, and we are watched for, and as I hear the bells ringing out the ninth peal we cannot wait any longer. Either we go inside or we walk away, and I do not think that either of us are ready to walk now. Not after all of the grief we have given each another over it, and certainly not now that Hob will be questioning us. We are both too proud for such a thing, and perhaps therein lies our idiocy.

We walk from the shadows we have been hidden in – an elf and a dwarf, oddities in such a place – and although every set of eyes watches us, we do not flinch or waver for a moment. We stride toward the tavern as though we own it.

~{O}~

The inside of the tavern is just as bright and airy as it seemed from without. The ceiling is high and the windows open, the fire is well ventilated and although there are many men in here, it does not seem cramped or uncomfortable. There are lanterns rather than bare candles, with polished brass and waxed wood that make it seem warm and welcoming. We head toward the back of the room where there are a number of doors, and one has the same shadowy men sat at the tables all around it. They guard the door, although they are not blending in as well as they perhaps think.

Shutter meets us here as though we are old friends, unsurprised by our presence and just a little drunk. It is an act, because I can smell that he has not touched a drop of drink all night, but he looks for all the world like nothing more than a harmless young man enjoying his evening. He has no cloak on, and because of it there is no hint of shadow or darkness about him at all. If it were not for those sly and darting, quick eyes I might believe the lie of him.

His flair for dramatics goes a little far and he goes as if to embrace me, but Legolas snarls and Shutter remembers, and he flinches away at the last moment. He is wary of Legolas. I think I would be wary of Legolas if he had threatened to cripple me, too.

"I would ask you to leave your weapons behind," Shutter asks, "but I think I might save my breath."

"You are smarter than you seem," I nod. "But you seem unconcerned that we go in armed."

Shutter smiles again, and this time it is cool and dry and without any emotion behind his eyes. It is far better suited on him.

"I am not concerned about it at all."

And he opens the door, and ushers us in.

~{O}~

The man that we meet is quite a surprise, because she is no man at all.

The Steward of the Second is a woman, and I know that I have identified her correctly because every person in the room is seated as though they are the stars, and she is the moon. She could be sat anywhere, anywhere at all, and she would still be at the centre.

There are more shadowy men, each of them indistinguishable to the next, but there are also two other women that stand at either side of the steward and they are her guards, it is as plain as day. They could be sisters, perhaps – dark haired and dark eyed, long limbed and pale. They both wear their hair in a long braid, their blades on display, and everything about them speaks danger. I pay little attention to them, because it is the woman that we have come to meet that I cannot take my eyes from.

She all but spills out of her dress, her figure lush and curved. Her skin is pale, her hair midnight black, and she has painted her face with dark eyes and lips of blood red. She is very beautiful, but it is not simply her face that makes her beautiful… she is powerful, intimidating, a sense of self that burns from her like the afterglow of a fire. What a magnificent creature she is!

She stands as we enter, and I think that even Legolas feels her influence because he bows quite gracefully to her. She smiles in thanks, inclines her own head with a spill of ink black hair, and gestures toward two chairs that have been brought in for us. She sits, a Queen, and Legolas must clear his throat so that I finally move. I am embarrassing myself.

"Prince Legolas, Lord Gimli," she murmurs, and her voice is rich and deep. "Or perhaps you would prefer Durin and Galadriel."

"That depends on whether you are willing to give us a name," I say. "We have had quite enough of mysteries, I think."

"I have many names," she smiles, indulgent. "They call me the Twilight Lady in some parts, is that not awful? In this room I am Briar, and you may call me such, but only in this room. The Steward of the Second seems more fitting in other company, at least for now."

"Why such secrecy?" Legolas asks, and I am surprised; it is unusual for him to speak amongst strangers and I am not sure that I like the way she is looking at him. "The King has been looking for you. I am sure that you know it, and I am certain you have no need to hide this way."

"The King does not need to meet me," she tells him firmly. "I am loyal to him – utterly loyal – and I am a steward only. There will be no need of me one day, and I will go back to being simply Briar, but until then I keep the peace on the second. I look after the workhouses and the orphans, the wanton women, the thieves and the assassins and the desperate. I keep their businesses running smoothly and orderly, because there is need for them."

"The King would have them fed and housed and working," Legolas blinks, his tone careful. "Law abiding."

"My good Prince," she smiles, and I see a hint of the iron beneath. She leans forward, affording us a magnificent view, and touches his face with butterfly soft fingers. "Beautiful elf, these people would not know what to do with any charity given them. They would drink it, and gamble it, and lose it up some slattern's skirts and then be right back in the gutter again. For some it is all they have ever known – can you imagine these men as bakers or book-keepers?"

She leans back, comfortable in her skin the way so few are. She regards us through hooded eyes and holds one hand out to the side, expectantly. A book is placed in it, quickly and efficiently, and she runs her fingers along the leather cover. She is tactile and distracting and I am more than a little bit frightened of her, in all honesty. Only the elves have this air of self about them, this intensity, but the elves are controlled and cool whereas this woman burns like the sun.

"This is not why you are here," she tells us. "I am not here to explain to you why a city needs men and women who work in the shadows, and why they need stewarding rather than saving. That is not a conversation for today."

She holds the book out, and I take it without thinking. "We did not kill Wynn, and we did not burn Edgar's house. If we did then we would know where he is. This journal was left on Wynn's body – we only had enough time to remove it before Captain Hob and his men arrived – but it paints us as the culprits."

"Why do you give it to us if it incriminates you?" I ask curiously, flicking through the pages. It is filled with cramped handwriting, spidery and untidy, and I can feel an itch of a headache just thinking about reading it.

"I meant it when I said that I am loyal to the King," she tells me. "This is beyond us; there are none within my circle that would do this and my own investigations have proven fruitless. Someone is trying to cause trouble – this journal paints us as murderers and traitors, conspiring against the Crown. When the King comes down to my home with his City Guard and his Whitecloaks, he will destroy everything that I protect. Captain Hob is fair, and you have reputation all of your own. I place myself in your hands."

She smirks when she says that, giving her words a very obvious double meaning, and I feel my face flame red. It is quite a pretty speech and every word falls like a pebble in the stream, certain and strong and sure. Eru she could talk the birds from the sky if she had a mind to.

"And if this is a ruse?" Legolas asks, and either he is completely immune to this woman or he is enjoying himself immensely, I cannot tell. "If this is simply some way of causing trouble?"

"Well then," she smiles, insouciant and promising. She meets his eyes without a flinch or waver, she does not blink or show any sign at all that his gaze is bothering her. I think she might rather enjoy being so much the centre of his regard, and my cheeks burn even hotter just watching. "In that case, my beautiful elf, I shall look forward to our next meeting."

TBC

* * *

 **Hello again! So since we last saw one another things have been no less stressful, but the cause of the stress is a bit more manageable so I'm taking that as a win. Thanks to everyone for their well wishes and their reviews, and a special shout out goes to DaughterofThranduil1701 who has - in just two weeks - not only managed to read through my entire back catalogue, but also review almost every single chapter. This is quite the achievement, and has provided me with a wonderful deluge of emails that have made me very happy. Thanks love!**

 **Lastly, this chapter has me asking a question which I have been discussing with a few of you, but I would like to pose to the whole room. Some of you think I'm being a bit mean to Gimli, because his actions in Silence were flawed but for good reasons. There is one camp that thinks Legolas is getting the sympathy and support, and poor Gims is being left to carry this alone. The other camp thinks he deserves to stew on this for a bit longer, because what he did to Legolas was pretty awful.**

 **I'm not going to say too much on my views, because it should all be laid out in the story as it unfolds, but I am genuinely curious as to what you all think!**

 **See you all again in two weeks (providing my countrymen don't make any more awful decisions) and I hope you all have a great weekend xx**

 **MyselfOnly**


	6. Chapter 6

We walk away from the Shod Cob, and both of us are in utter silence until I think we are far enough away. Then I turn and I punch Legolas quite squarely in the arm.

"Stars above, Gimli!" he cries with a thunderous look. "What could I _possibly_ have done this time?"

"That is to remind you of Faelwen," I snap back.

"And why would you need to remind me of Faelwen?"

"Oh, you know why," I hiss scornfully, narrowing my eyes. "She was all but undressing you, and you were quite happy to let her."

"She is a fine and powerful woman," he shrugs, with all the guile of a woodheap. "Despite that she is no elf she is quite magnificent, but Gimli… there is no equal to Faelwen. None at all. And in any case, I have been told that I am fair. Do you not think me beautiful? The Lady Briar does."

I shove him nearly completely into a spindly bush, and when he fights me I continue to shove until he is tripping through snapping branches. He is laughing – bright and clear – and when he dances out of reach he snatches the journal out of my hand, tilts it toward the moonlight so that he might read it.

"Oh this is barely decipherable," he frowns in disgust. "I can barely read their language as it is, the least they could do is have a consistent hand."

"Not even your own people can read your penmanship," I point out, taking the book back and trying to read it as well. "I can perhaps make it out, but I will need more light."

We make quick time through the city – back up through streets and tunnels that I am becoming quite familiar with by now – and Legolas is quite captured by this whole thing. He shines like the stars, and it is not just that same moon-pale nimbus; there is something else that lends brightness to him when he is this way. I smile.

Captain Hob is leaning against the wall of the gate to the fifth circle, his arms folded as he waits for us. Legolas tosses him the journal as he moves past, and the captain catches it with a questioning look.

"Come with us," Legolas says, and it is not a request or even particularly polite. "We go to the King; I have no desire to go through this twice."

I shrug helplessly at Hob as we pass, and to give him the respect he is due the man looks curious rather than angry. I can see him consider – just for a moment – ignoring the elfling and doing as he wishes rather than what he is bid, but despite that he is a proud man, he is also fairly sensible.

"Is he always this way?" he asks me with an exasperated huff.

"Sometimes he sleeps," I offer, and I do not stop to make sure he is following us because I know that he will. His curiosity will only get us so far though; Captain Hob does not seem a man particularly accustomed to being brushed off or disrespected. I also think that perhaps he is not the sort of man to allow such things for very long. I jog quickly until I am abreast of the elfling.

"He is going to hit you in the nose," I tell Legolas quite certainly, "and I shall only laugh."

"He will try," is the flat reply, and I sigh.

"Whether he manages it is not the point, Legolas, and you know that. You are being rude, and you know that as well."

Legolas' bearing tightens, I can see a muscle dancing and jumping in his jaw, but if he wants me to treat him the same as I always have then he cannot argue with me when I do. He knows, and his silence is his assent. He will try a little harder.

We continue our journey in silence, through the sixth and across the endless courtyards until we reach the King's House. It has become very cold, and it is always very windy up here, but the pace that Legolas sets keeps me from getting too chilled. Hob trails behind but only because he is reading the journal; he glances up on occasion but otherwise I have no idea at all how he is navigating. He does not trip or bump into anything, but when we reach the corridor outside Aragorn's rooms he looks surprised, peering around with poorly hidden interest. I do not think he has ever been here before.

Legolas raps smartly upon the door but does not wait to be summed, instead he strides in as though the rooms are his, and I feel a flicker of panic. I hope that Aragorn is dressed.

The King's rooms are large – large enough that I would hesitate to call them rooms but rather a wing in its own right. I have only seen his bed chambers once but they are just as one might expect: big, everything on far too large a scale, full of tapestries and things of comfort. They are set far back, and in between there is a study and a small room just for books, a dressing room, a dining room – of all things – and this one, his personal receiving room. He does not use it very often; the King's House is a fair walk from the main part of the upper circle and he tends to do most of his receiving there. Legolas and I have been here a few times though, and I start to wonder how appropriate it is that we bring Hob with us.

"Estel," Legolas calls out, "we are here," and he settles himself quite comfortably. I can hear the King moving about elsewhere, and his voice rings out as I shut the door behind me.

"Oh, good," he calls, "you live, that is quite the relief. Does Gimli live?"

"Aye," I call out, and then decide that I should probably let him know. "We bring a visitor."

I find my usual seat – beside Legolas and before a huge fire, opposite where Aragorn normally situates himself. There is wine set out and so I help myself, because this has been a _very_ long day. Hob, however, looks extremely uncomfortable. He stands in the centre of the room as though he is itching to be gone already, and I think he might be a little bit awed by where he is but he hides it with a huge scowl. The journal is tucked under his arm, he scratches at his leg and looks around him as though the tapestries are about to attack him.

Captain Hob is the sort of fellow who has lead from the front, and has had very little dealing when it comes to those who have sent him there. He is comfortable with soldiers, with sleeping in the lines in nothing but his own cloak. He likely drinks ale out of wooden cups and I know that he swears a lot. He has probably never met his King before now.

I wonder how we seem to him, and I glance at Legolas… try to see him how Hob must.

Even I have trouble reading the elfling. He is too different in each moment: sometimes quiet and mysterious, sometimes cold, sometimes insufferably elven and always far too used to having his orders followed. Hob has not seen the other side of my friend, and on the face of it the elf really is quite difficult to like… especially by a man like the captain.

I have no idea how I seem at all, none whatsoever, but I find myself amused by my thoughts. Legolas catches a hint of them and narrows his eyes at me suspiciously, but I wave him away with a gesture that says I will speak of it later.

Aragorn joins us, and despite the late hour he is thankfully still dressed to receive. He has changed into something more comfortable – more fitting for the man that he is, as opposed to the man he is seen to be – and he seems far more relaxed. He does not look like a King, he looks perhaps like one of the household staff who has become lost in the building, but of course he is Aragorn. It is the man who is the King, not how he presents himself, and as soon as he is in the room it feels both smaller and greater. I envy that of him, but at the same time I am glad that I am no more than Gimli. Greatness is for men like him, and to be honest it all seems quite exhausting.

He passes Legolas with a fond look, I receive a hand upon the shoulder as he moves beyond me, and then he stops before Captain Hob. He sees him, reads him, takes his measure all in one look, and the scowling captain reacts just as most men do when they finally meet my friend.

He drops to his knee, bows his head, and becomes rather emotional. Aragorn grimaces, although he hides it swiftly. Legolas rolls his eyes, gives me a sly grin, and I cannot help but stifle my own smile.

 _Men_.

"You must be Captain Hob," Aragorn says warmly, extending one hand so that he rises back to his feet. "My friends speak well of you, it is good that we meet."

"My King, my Lord" Hob mumbles, and Eru he is flushing! He is embarrassed, he does not know how to act, and my smile fades away. It is unfair of me to mock him. "I am honoured," he says, "honoured far beyond my imagining."

"That is nice," Aragorn laughs, and somehow he manages to make it sound warm and humble and grateful. Somehow he makes Hob relax, and I honestly do not know how he does it; I certainly could not. "Please, captain, sit. I came from far less than this and I have not been King for very long; if you stand then I shall stand as well, and we will both be very uncomfortable. Tell me why you are here?"

"I am here because the elven prince instructed me to come here," he says sourly, and then adds quickly: "my King."

Aragorn laughs again, and that is it… Hob is himself again. My friend comes across to the fire, bats Legolas' feet away from where they are propped on the arm of his chair and sits. Hob takes the only empty seat but he does not make himself comfortable; he perches on the edge, his eyes still roving over everything as though committing it to memory.

"You will have to excuse my friend," Aragorn tells him, glancing sourly at Legolas. "We are all old soldiers, and he is older than most. We are all the same, in our hearts."

Hob looks doubtful, glances briefly at the elfling who is staring into the fire and chewing a nail as though he is not being spoken about at all. I think that his mind has gone elsewhere for a moment, and I take the briefest glimpse, pluck faintly at the cobweb fine link between us so that I might see that he is well – that his mind is present, sane.

He feels it, looks askance with the faintest flicker of summer blue, and in it I see no accusation or annoyance; I see reassurance. I think perhaps he is merely tired as well.

I take up the narrative, as is my lot in life, and I tell Aragorn and Hob everything that happened after we left them. I leave out nothing, including the outrageous flirtation, and although Legolas gives me a soft hiss of annoyance I continue without any concern until I am done.

"What of Faelwen?" Aragorn scowls at Legolas, almost entirely ignoring the far more pertinent points of my story.

"By the stars, Estel!" Legolas exclaims with a rise of his hands and an upward glance for strength.

"What did the journal say?" I ask Hob, interrupting. "Legolas can barely _speak_ the common tongue consistently, and I could not make it out."

The captain pulls it open, flicks through the pages but it is more for something to do with his hands. He sets it aside, rubs one hand across his close cropped hair so that it makes a rasping sound, and I recognise this… the elfling does it all of the time: fidgeting, fiddling with things; unsettled actions. He has something to say, but he is unsure on how to broach it.

"Firstly," he says, "I will admit that the penmanship is terrible, but that is all we need to know that the journal was planted upon Wynn's body."

I blink in confusion, and I glance at Aragorn only to be reassured that he is also blinking in confusion.

"He was being trained as a scholar," Legolas murmurs. "For a boy to be elevated, to have come from such a poor beginning and granted such a future… he could not have such shocking grasp of his letters."

Hob nods and I feel instantly stupid.

"The Steward of the Second is quite correct," Hob continues. "It is a journal, and it describes investigations over a period of months into the dealings in the second circle. It speaks of a meeting with a city official, of the evidence he would provide so that arrests could be made. To be found on his body… it is incriminating indeed."

"You have doubts," Legolas tilts his head, a birdlike movement, and I think that Hob is starting to become accustomed to him… he nods and Legolas continues, and again it is a statement rather than a question. "You are from the second circle."

Hob avoids our gaze for just a moment, but then he braces himself, meets our gaze proudly as though we might judge him poorly for it. He sees no such thing.

"How did you know?"

"When she spoke of you, she spoke as though she knew you," Legolas says, as though it is quite obvious. "You were unsurprised when we told you the steward is a woman, you are comfortable there upon the second… many things. It does not matter. Tell us your take on this; I would hear it."

Sometimes the elfling surprises me, sometimes he is far more astute than he pretends to be, and I am proud of him right now. Not because he knew these things, not because he has been clever – because I know that Legolas is clever – but rather that he is clever despite everything that is going on in his head right now.

"I think," Hob starts, pauses, considers his words. "I think that people do not carry their journals around with them. My men have spoken to Wynn's colleagues on the third and they have nothing but praise for him, nothing but grief in his passing. I think that it was not Wynn's journal at all, and I think it was his brother that was meant to be in the alley that night. I think that the journal was placed upon his body, and I think that we need to find the brother."

"The Steward of the Second seems fairly capable," I say. "If she cannot find him with all of her resources, I do not know how we will. Do you think that it is Edgar's journal, or do you think that it is entirely fabricated?"

"It could be either," Hob admits. "It tells of very bad things, very bad indeed. Lady Briar would not have given it to us if these things were true, but perhaps in the giving she thinks that we will assume it all false. I would lean toward it being a fabrication. The Lady Briar is brazen but she is not stupid, and she does nothing that will not serve the second. Why give it to us if it is all truth?"

"Then who was the writer?" I ask, but not because I expect any answer. It is what we are all thinking. "We must not act entirely on suspicion; we will waste time if we are wrong."

"I will have someone speak to the Clerk of Records," Hob says. "If Edgar was to meet with a city official, then there will be record of it. Writing things on paper is certainly something that we excel at here. And we must find Edgar! There is much that he could answer for us."

"I have a thought on that," Legolas says.

"Lady Briar could not find him," Hob frowns doubtfully, as though any suggestion that she has been lacking in some way is an affront to him. "You do not know this city as she does."

"I do not know the _second_ as she does," Legolas counters. "There is a whole city above and below the second circle."

"If anyone can find him, it is a _laegrim_ elf," Aragorn says, and his tone invites no discussion. I wonder if this means that I am to be dragged into the search as well so I keep my mouth shut in the hope that I am not.

"We should also find Sig," I say, draining the last of my wine. "He may have handed us over to an assassin, but I believe that he saw Edgar this afternoon before his house was burned. There may be answers there."

"I know where to find him," Hob nods. "There is a brothel where he is looked after – they might speak to me there."

"I must say," Aragorn says with a slight frown. "I am unsure how happy I am that there is so much organised crime in my city."

"That organised crime paid for all of your taverns to be rebuilt, my King," Hob shrugs. "It is something to think on."

~{O}~

There is little more to speak of, in truth, and so after that we leave. I should not have had any wine; it has made me sleepy, and it is getting very late. We make plans to meet with Aragorn for lunch tomorrow and take our leave, and the walk back across the courtyard is cold and dark and windy. It smells of ice with the faintest hint of awakening green, and it stings my face as we fight our way through the darkness.

Legolas has grown quiet, which is his way, and I speak with Hob as we walk.

"He is different than I imagined," he says, a slight frown at his brow. "I was at the coronation – everyone was there – but I caught a glimpse of him and I thought myself lucky. He seemed far more…" he searches for the word, and I wait for a while before offering:

"Kingly?" I suggest, but he looks horrified.

"Not at all!" he exclaims. "He is the first King that I have met, indeed he is the first King I have ever _had_. I mean rather that he is the sort of King that a man like me could only hope to have. He is like me, but he is better and finer, and I would follow him. I would follow him anywhere at all."

It is rather an emotional outburst for a soldier like Hob, and I grant him silence because the moment feels as though I should. I look up and I see him outlined in faint starlight: scarred and worn and rough, hard eyed and utterly overcome by meeting my friend. He glances down at me, a hint of challenge in his jaw, but I simply nod.

"He has that way about him," I say simply. "He was born for this throne, and his deeds have made him worthy of it. Perhaps Legolas should tell you a few tales of him as a boy; from what I hear he was an awful child. It might help."

Hob glances back at Legolas with a distrustful air, and Legolas simply arches one eyebrow in response, but Hob tries… he tries to offer a hand in peace.

"It is true then," he asks the elfling. "You knew him before the Quest?"

I wait, and I cringe with every silent moment that passes. Legolas is stubborn, and for some reason he has decided that he does not wish to be friends with this man, but for Hob to make an effort is unexpected. He is not the type – indeed they are far more similar than they are ever likely to accept. If the elfling is rude or difficult now then the opportunity will not present itself again, and although I do not care whether they like one another or not, I would prefer they did. This is terribly awkward.

I see the moment that the elfling relents, softens, sighs imperceptibly. His gaze drifts back toward the horizon, and it is far easier to breathe now that he is not staring.

"Aye," he nods, and this is my elfling rather than the one that Hob has known so far. He is softer, kinder, younger. "My father and Lord Elrond would go to war in a generation if their children were not friends, and so I met him whilst I visited the twins not too long ago."

"Eighty years ago," I correct. He waves me away negligently.

"He was an utter nightmare," he continues with a sigh. "He fell into a river every day that I was there, and every time that I met him after that he had found some other way of falling." He holds his hand out and ticks his fingers off: "Out of trees, down stairs, off horses, over his own feet… you are lucky you have a King at all."

Hob is still for a while, considering this, and when he laughs I see Legolas relax even further. Hob has a good laugh – deep and soft and real – and he continues our walk in silence but he is smiling. The elfling gives me an exasperated look, but I do not respond to it. I can hear his words as though he has spoken them aloud.

Another one. He has befriended another of the _edain_ when he was so set on avoiding such a thing.

Men betray, men leave, men die, but Legolas left the Greenwood to travel and experience the world. I know it is difficult for him, but since this winter he needs things to keep him grounded – to keep him connected – and he needs this, he simply does not see it.

We tell Hob that we will see him again in the morning, and Legolas calls him 'Faengolen' again which receives nothing but a puzzled scowl. I think he imagines he is being insulted, but before he has a chance to question it we are gone. We return to our rooms, we bid our goodnights, and I am finally, blissfully, alone.

~{O}~

I am sure that there are some people who question my sanity, considering the life that I have chosen to lead. I know for certain that my family question it – they tell me so at every opportunity – but I cannot imagine any other.

I have nightmares. Almost every night I have them, and they are blood soaked and terrible things. My hands shake sometimes, and I find myself swallowed by bad memories of dark places without any warning at all. I panic in crowds and I am not very close to my family, because they are strangers to me now when they never were before. My body is a map of scars; I ache… Eru do I ache, and I do not think that I will live to be a particularly old dwarf.

But the things that I have seen and done…

I count kings and queens and lords and ladies amongst my friends, warriors of legend and great renown. My name will live on long after I am gone, and my deeds have contributed toward the safety and prosperity of every person alive today or born tomorrow. I know a friendship that I had never expected to know, not ever, and it is more than the knowing of someone but more like blood. He is my brother in every way – there for my silences and sadness as well as the joy, and by _Mahal's very own nostril hairs_ I have been awake mere moments and he is already annoying me.

Rain drums and patters at my window, fitful and wind driven, but I am warm and comfortable here in my bed. It is still dark, I lie in the dimness of a rain soaked morning and I run my fingers across the fabric. I stare at the ceiling, I concentrate on nothing and I try very hard to block him out – I try with every part of me – but it is like trying to ignore an itch. His madness is a moth in my mind, it bumps against everything in clumsy panic, and I feel it scrape and twitch until I can take it no more.

I find him in his chambers, just as I knew I would, and I throw open the door far harder than I had meant to so that it bangs against the wall. I stand there – me in my bedclothes – and I glare at him but he barely even notices that I am there.

"Legolas," I snap. _"Legolas!"_

He jumps, blinks, stares at me for a long time, and I wonder whether he has forgotten who I am or simply how he is meant to greet people. It could be anything. His hair is tangled, as though he has spent the night running his hands through it, and his clothes are rumpled and creased. I would accuse him of sleeping in them if I thought he had slept at all, and his eyes burn fever bright against skin of palest white.

His room is full of parchment – large sheets of it, scrolls and scrolls – and for just a moment my curiosity wanders before I stop myself. There is time to find out what he has been doing all of the night through, and this is not it.

He does not move, he does not respond at all. His eyes are fixed and unblinking and awful, and for a moment it feels as though I am in the room with an animal. The forest is in him, tangled up in his head and turning him wild.

"We are leaving the city," I announce, spinning on my heel and returning to my chamber so that I might dress. "Get ready. Or do not, it does not matter – we are going either way."

"Gimli, no," he chokes, finally remembering. "I have found something."

"It can wait," I shout through the muffling of my shirt. The tailors in Minas Tirith make neck holes for people with beards far smaller than mine, and I panic for a moment before I wrestle my head free. "I am quite serious Legolas; I will hit you over the head with my bedpan and carry you if I must."

I hear him grumbling and swearing, but despite his petulance he does as he is told. In no time at all I am dressed and dragging a sulking and twitchy elfling through the city, and then we have horses, and then we are gone.

~{O}~

I have said often that I dislike rain, but I do not think that anyone truly appreciates the _extent_ of my dislike. I am perfectly fine if I am indoors – in fact it is rather soothing to be warm and dry when it is cold and wet without – but when it is falling directly upon me it is different. Running a horse through a torrential downpour before the sun is even fully risen… words fail me. It is simply too awful.

Legolas awakened the moment that we left the city, brought back to himself by the scent of endless plains and wind and furious rain. There are no trees here, nothing worth noting except scrubby and lonely things, but the elfling does not need trees all of the time; this is sufficient for him and he will have to make do.

He kicks his horse into a run as soon as it is sensible to do so, and we race across the Pelennor as thunder rolls heavily across the swollen sky. Ice cold rain drives into my face, my eyes, soaking me utterly to the bone, and Legolas and I run off his madness before most people are even up and about.

 _Ai_ , the things I do for this creature… I curse him constantly the whole time that I am out here, but I admit that there is some part of me that finds it thrilling. It is not the first time that we have done this – it is not even the tenth time – and after a while the novelty grows old, but I would have to be made of stone or wood not to feel it. This is freedom and wildness, and I have spent too long tangled up in the head of a _laegrim_ elf not to appreciate it in some way.

We run as long as we can: breathless, wind tattered and battered by the storm, but horses are not made for running this way, not for too long. We circle back, we slow, and by the time we are coming back toward the city we walk. The horses steam in the cold air, but I think they have enjoyed themselves; they are alert and bright, and I clap mine heartily on the neck in thanks for her service. She is not Naurwen, but she is a good horse.

"Do you feel better?" I ask the elfling as we clatter back through the gates. The guards look at us as though we are insane – we are mud streaked and dripping wet, and there is no obvious reason for what we have done – but I know that it has been worthwhile when Legolas looks back at me with gratitude.

He nods, says nothing, but I can see it in him – the madness calmed, sated, his mind focussed again. He does not need to say anything at all.

~{O}~

We spend time looking after the horses, because it does not seem right that we leave it to the stable-hands. It is our fault that they are soaked, and so we spend a long time ministering to them. I find it soothing: scrubbing hay across sodden flanks, running a brush across her solid bulk, because it is something I have become used to. It speaks of the quiet moments in my life, the calm hours between running and fighting: the smell of damp horse and hay, the warmth of the stable, Legolas' silent presence keeping me company. It calms me.

My beard is a nightmare of windswept frizz, I am starting to smell unpleasantly damp and I have a chill running through my bones. I am hungry and far too tired for someone who has only just climbed from his bed.

"So," I speak eventually, and when I do not continue Legolas makes a noise to confirm he is listening. "What had you up until the dawn?"

"It was one of my… difficult nights," he admits. "I needed something to occupy my mind, and so I went to the library."

"You should wake me when that happens, Legolas," I huff softly, but he waves it away. He stops, folds his arms across the stall that divides us and rests his chin upon them. I can feel his gaze heavy upon me but I do not look up from what I am doing.

"Would you have thanked me for it?" he asks with a wry smile. "I do not think you would have. And I am not an invalid."

I snort, but I do not comment. He has managed to bring himself – mostly – back into his own mind without me, but he does not have to do it alone. Not all of the time.

"And what did you find in the library?" I ask. I hope that I will not have to drag this out of him one fact at a time; we are due to meet with Hob this morning, and I mean to dress in something dry first. I also have every intention of there being a large breakfast in my immediate future.

"I did not stay there," he curls his nose up, returns to running a brush heavily across his horse's flank. It is a steady and practised motion, and he clucks something in his own tongue as the beast butts him with a curious nose. "Estel's library is a terrible place Gimli; there are men in there that I am certain have never seen the sky before."

"There is an eventual point to be reached here, I am certain of it…"

"I remember this city being built," he says. He is done, pulls a blanket across his horse and he claps it in farewell but does not go far. He pulls himself up onto a crate, hunches over and kicks his legs like a boy. "Or at least, I remember my grandfather telling me about it; I never travelled far from the forest, as you know. I recall him describing the city as it crept up Mindolluin, like ivy up a tree, growing like lichen until it became as you see it now. He said that there were caverns, but have you seen caverns?"

I stop, I think, and I suddenly find myself quite curious.

"You found the old city plans," I conclude, and he nods. "What did you find?"

"Caverns," he replies flatly, as though I am an idiot. I roll my eyes hugely and he laughs. "It was not easy; those old plans are falling apart and the newer maps do not overlay particularly well with the old ones, but I have somewhere to start. Edgar's home is close to where the drainage system has collapsed, and I think those old tunnels lead into the caverns."

My mind is racing, dancing with intrigue, and I give him an odd look.

"You can be fairly clever when you wish to be," I tell him. I mean to be serious, but I cannot help but smile broadly and he gives me a look of disgust.

"Oh, Gimli, try not to strain yourself. One mention of secret buried caves and you are all but dancing!"

"Dwarves are surprisingly agile dancers," I reply archly, "and of course I will be coming with you."

"I have no intention of going into those tunnels," he says quite certainly. "You think that a good idea right now?"

He gestures a hand at himself, up and down from crown to boot, and I take his meaning. He has almost fallen apart in one night, in a garden open to the sky and with a thousand ways of escaping to the air. Sending him underground is a ridiculous idea, and I feel a stab of disappointment.

"Do not look so sad, my friend," he laughs. "Of course you must go; only a fool would embark upon such a thing without a dwarf, and you are the only one we have."

I am finished, I grab my cloak and Legolas pushes himself off his crate. We leave the stables to a morning that is fresh and rain washed. The storm has passed and the sky is fresh blue, with dances of pale clouds that wisp and eddy in the wind. It will be a fine day, but I am still damp and the wind sets a chill deep in my bones.

Legolas steps out into the brisk air, tilts his head to the sun and closes his eyes for a moment, but when he returns his gaze earthward there is a touch of a frown at his brow. He wants to say something, I can feel it humming between us, and I wait patiently. Sometimes he must come to it by himself.

"Do you still hate it?" he asks me, and there is curiosity in his tone but also a whisper of caution.

He speaks of our link, of our connection, and I understand his carefulness if not the reason for asking such a thing. When it was new – the first time I felt the touch of his mind, the days afterward – I will admit that I hated it… I hated it completely. I did not want him rummaging around in my mind, I considered it an intrusion, and I would have given anything to be rid of it.

Since then, things have changed. Since then I have not only become accustomed to it, but I rely upon it – it is a sense just as my hearing or my sight. To reach out and touch Legolas' heart, to feel his presence against my own like the warmth of the sun in the sky and know exactly where he is… I cannot truly recall what it was like before I had this connection.

I have been silent too long, and he is still raw and exposed. He clears his throat.

"I would understand," he says lightly, but it is forced, and I reach out to place my hand against his arm. He tenses, rigid and prepared for a rejection – because that is how he has always seen it – and when he looks at me it breaks my heart to see such a tiny glimmer of hope in those careful blue eyes.

"I did, at first," I tell him. "Now? Now I hate only the thought of losing it."

And he is still for just a moment, and when he smiles at me it is broad and happy – as open as the sky. I feel it melt across me, his fondness and the regard he holds me in, and I feel my throat tighten for just a second. I growl through my beard, scowl and walk a little faster, and his quiet laugh is carried upon the wind into the blue.

I grin to myself as well when he cannot see my face any longer.

 _Elves._

~{O}~

By the time I emerge from my rooms again – finally warm, clean and dressed in soft and dry clothes – Hob is already poring over Legolas' maps with the enthusiasm of a boy who has found the greatest treasure in the lands. His eyes are bright and focussed, and he barely glances up at me as I join them. I struggle my hair into a braid and look to where Legolas is slouched in a chair. He looks tired.

"Rose petals," I grumble as I make my way toward where our breakfast is laid out. "Why must they put rose petals in everything?"

"I am thankful for it," the elfling mumbles through a mouthful of bread. He is about to make some comment about how I smell, and I change the subject before he can get started.

"You think there is some credence to this madness?" I ask the captain, and Legolas makes a disgusted noise. I gesture in his direction. "He has odd ideas sometimes."

"I would be exploring whether there was credence or not," the captain tells me.

He straightens, helps himself to our breakfast and settles in one of Legolas' chairs, far more comfortable than he seemed last night. Finally he seems to remember that the elfling is sat with us.

"One of the lads speaks Sindarin," he informs him. "I asked him what you keep calling me. Our cloaks might be green, you realise."

"They should be white," Legolas dismisses. "Did you hear from the Clerk of Records?"

"Aye," Hob mumbles through a mouth of food, his eyebrows rising. "I was surprised; there was a meeting to be held with a provost. Edgar never arrived."

"A provost?" I frown, because that makes little sense at all. Hob nods.

"I thought the same thing. A strange choice, if the journal is to be believed."

"This is a strange profession that you have chosen," Legolas sighs, rubbing his forehead tiredly. "This is mysteries upon mysteries, one after the other."

"It is something to do," Hob shrugs one shoulder carelessly. "There are no wars left to fight, and it was either this or quartermaster. In any case, it is far better than weaving flowers into my hair and attending feasts."

"Indeed," Legolas replies flatly, frowning. "You have very strange ideas about how I have spent the last age."

But Legolas is not offended, and Hob has the hint of a smile on his face. Something has shifted between them.

"Legolas will not be coming with us," I wave toward the maps that still flow and fold over every available surface. "Have you men available?"

"Enough," Hob nods. If he is curious as to why we are not bringing an elf on a hunt when we have all been so certain that we need him, then he does not say anything on it. "I sent word for them to ready themselves whilst you were perfuming your beard, or however you spent your time in there."

"You are too comfortable with us, too quickly," I scowl, just as Legolas stifles a snort. I pat at my beard and sniff at it as subtly as I can, and it does smell like flowers. Curse it. I glare at the elfling. "How do you intend to spend your day?"

"There is something that I would like to check," he tells me, barely even noticing the glare. "The house – it burned too quickly. If those poor souls in the library are to be believed, there are four places in the city where oils are distilled finely enough for such a thing. Perhaps one might recall an unusual customer."

"The oil merchants should be open for trade by now," Hob tells him, nodding, approving. "I have a request of you, if you would hear it. The novices train at bow this afternoon, and I have heard that you are of some skill. An hour of your tutelage would be worth a week of lessons."

Legolas snorts again – I have never been able to break him of that habit – and I can hear very clearly that a week is an underestimate, in his opinion, but he seems pleased. I am unsure whether it is because Hob has asked, or perhaps because the cursed elf simply cannot pass by an opportunity to play at bow, but either way I know that he will not refuse.

"Then we will come and find you there," I tell the elfling. "Once we are done, one way or the other."

"Marvellous," Hob stands, showering Legolas' nice clean floor with crumbs. He starts to gather the maps together briskly, and I take this to mean that we are on the move. I glance at Legolas and I pause, because it has been a while since we have done anything separately. Not since we met again.

I am not worried for him, not for his safety, because despite that he is in trouble more often than most, he is also extremely capable. Elves are like ferrets sometimes; difficult to snare and terribly cunning. It is something different… something difficult to put word to, and impossible whilst we have such company. It is his mind that I worry over: his focus, his ability to function without me there as a buffer. I feel a flush of guilt that I am so doubtful of him when I never have been before.

Legolas knows, because I am not hiding it from him, and he meets my eyes. It is not the tattered remains of the Shadow that links us this time, because Legolas and I could speak without words before we encountered her. He tells me:

 _I will be well_

And I must believe him, and although it feels immeasurably strange, we go our separate ways.

TBC

* * *

 **Little bit light on action and heavy on _stuff_ this week, but we'll get some action going soon, I promise!**

 **Just as a warning, I will be posting one more chapter in a fortnight's time, and then I will be taking a short break. Things have been a bit hectic recently and so I've had to slow down on writing, and I will also not get much of a chance to write anything in the next few weeks either. I've got a healthy number of chapters written, but it's difficult to keep up with getting these chapters in a condition where I'm happy to post them, as well as writing at least one new chapter every two weeks. I'll probably only be skipping one scheduled chapter, possibly only jumping a week and leaving three weeks between instead of two, but there will be a break. And BOY do I plan on leaving it on a cliffhanger lol :D**

 **Apologies to anyone who reviewed the last chapter, because I did not respond to your reviews. It really has been hectic, I am very sorry, but please rest assured that I am extremely thankful and I will resume my usual responses this week. I love you all, each of your reviews means a huge amount to me so please don't be put off. I love to hear from you!**

 **Have a great weekend :)**

 **MyselfOnly xx**


	7. Chapter 7

Hob is in a very good mood today, and it is lucky that he is far stockier and shorter in the leg than most _edain_ because he is another one who likes to sprint around. He walks swiftly but I have no problem keeping up with him, and I am mostly lost in my thoughts so I am surprised when he speaks. We have made it a fair distance without him saying anything, so I think perhaps he has been forming his words the whole way.

"Elves are not as I imagined," he says, and I am surprised by his choice of subject, but perhaps not too surprised. He has changed his opinion somewhere between our last meeting and this morning.

"Not all elves are the same," I say. "From my experience, the Noldor are wise and make me feel an idiot all of the time. The Sindar are brave and easy to underestimate. Every Silvan elf I have ever met is distressingly tended toward violence and of questionable sanity."

Hob laughs, and I marvel at how different he is today. It is as though he has shed the mantle of captain and has decided to simply be a soldier… as though he has no idea how to take us, and so has reverted to what is most comfortable. I like him far better this way.

"You are curious about him?" I ask.

"I am curious about you both," he admits, "but he is not here, and so I cannot ask him about you. Perhaps I will get him drunk later."

"Good luck to you," I mutter. "I have never managed it even once. If you have questions then ask them, friend Hob."

"There are tales of you," he says, but he draws the words out as though he is thinking them as he speaks. "I have heard them told, and I believe them true, but the two of you being friends…"

He stops, makes a face, and there are all sorts of things hanging in the air now.

I feel suddenly awkward and uncomfortable, and Hob can tell. He has gone over a line somewhere, he knows that he has, but he does not know how to remedy it. He is unsure whether to brazen it out, make a joke, or ignore that he has said anything at all, and I know all of this because perhaps Hob and I are quite similar as well. It is all of the things that I would be feeling, and I decide to be kind to him.

He is trying to be friendly, trying to treat me as though we are nothing more than lads in the ranks getting to know one another, because this is what he knows - what he is accustomed to. I should be honoured; in a man like Hob, this is the greatest compliment he can pay me.

"We are an odd pair, are we not," I smile at him, although I am unsure as to whether he can tell. The rose laden waters have made my beard far too large and fluffy. "To be truthful, we could not _stand_ one another at first. Had we not been so occupied, I might have shoved him off the edge of Caradhras the moment the rest of the Fellowship looked away. Alas, Mithrandir is quite observant."

He smiles, relaxes again.

"Legolas says that you dislike elves," I say, and I am careful to keep it as a question rather than an accusation. "He says that you already disliked them, and he is very perceptive for all his faults."

I am not sure how I expected him to react, but I certainly did not expect him to laugh. He ducks his head, abashed, and looks quite embarrassed. He runs his hand across his head, and I start to wonder why he does that as often as he does.

"In truth, master Gimli, I had never met an elf before yesterday," he says. "I have seen them, many of them from afar, but I have never spoken to one. Speaking to elves is a matter for greater men than low-born captains, but what I did see…"

He does not finish, but I think I can understand in any case. There is a silence before he continues.

"I have had to work for everything I have ever had," he says. "I have no family, I am not a rich man by any stretch of the imagination, but I am a captain now. I have fought and battled my way through life, but to see an elf? It always seemed so unfair – they are beautiful and immortal, wise and strong. Gifted just by their birth."

"So what has changed?" I ask. "You are different toward us today. I do not complain about it, but I would be interested if you would tell me."

"I met an elf," he shrugs. "And you… you are like me, despite that you are a dwarf, and I was curious that you could be friends. The lad who translated that word for me. What is it? Fae-something?"

" _Faengolen_."

"Aye. He knows a few things of elves. He told me about Mirkwood, about what has been happening there and for how long, and I think perhaps your prince has had to fight for everything he has as well. If the two of you can be friends, then at least I can try not to be difficult."

I smile, and I cannot help it, because this is a fine man beside me. Fine indeed. I reach up and clap him on the shoulder.

"I make no promises for the elfling," I tell him. "We have had some unpleasant experiences with men recently. For someone so old, this is the longest he has spent out of the forest and he does not trust easily, but it is worth it if you are persistent. Do not tell him I said that, though. I will deny it."

"I served alongside Larke's older brother," he tells me. "We rode with Lord Boromir and retook Osgiliath, and it was the proudest and greatest moment of my life. We rode again with Lord Faramir once it was lost, although we knew we could not regain it. He was killed on the retreat across the Pelennor. We were boys together, grew up shoulder to shoulder – we trained and took our oaths on the same day, even fought over the same girl once. Starling, his name was… his mother loved birds, so she did. I think perhaps I loved him as you love the elf."

"He is my brother," I nod. "We have been through much together."

We share a moment then, eye to eye, and we need not say any more. It is embarrassing, awkward, but Hob and I are friends now. It is a lot to share this early in the morning, but I am glad that we have spoken.

He nods, short and sharp, as though he has just decided something, and we make our way toward the daylight.

~{O}~

There are quite a number of us that descend toward the second circle, and we look rather fine in the clear morning light. The Whitecloaks – drat the elf, the name has stuck now – are well disciplined, but they are no longer soldiers. They smile and laugh, poke fun at one another, speak freely as we prepare ourselves. Their breath plumes in the cold air of the morning, some of them drink hot tea from cups and shake off burned fingers, one of them is a bit hungover.

I enjoy observing such scenes, because everything we have fought and endured has been worth it. These men have futures, friends that are likely to live full and long lives, positions that are far less dangerous than they once had. They are young men, mostly, and in some small way we have given them this. We have played our part.

Hob stops us on the third level and collars a small girl, dishevelled and dirty, hard eyed and suspicious. He speaks lowly to her and gives her a coin, and she dashes off through the gate to the second. We will leave our horses here, he says, and the others do as they are told without question but I look to him curiously.

"This is what the Steward is most cautious of," he tells me quietly. "We look as though we are here to cause trouble. There are too many of us and the people here fear soldiers. If the King's forces come down here in retribution – if we come to impose law – then they will fight us, and the Steward will not be able to stop them. The girl is a messenger; she will run ahead and tell that we are here peacefully."

"And if she simply runs away with the coin?"

"Then try not to kill anyone," he tells me, quite at ease with the whole thing. "It will be difficult to convince the Steward of our first intentions if we are telling it from a mound of bodies."

He walks away, leaving me blinking, and I begin to feel a flutter of nerves. Aragorn was right; it is as though this whole circle is divorced entirely from the rest of the city. I have no experience even similar to this to fall back on, nothing that would tell me how to act in an annex where tensions run this high, not when I am on the wrong side of the numbers. I cast my eye over our group; it no longer seems so large to me.

I am being left behind, I hurry until I am caught up, and then we walk through the gate to the second circle.

~{O}~

The entrance to the drainage system is hard to find, and for a long hour I curse the elfling for not coming with us. He could have found it easily enough, I know that he could, but after Hob has exhausted his – admittedly impressive – list of swear words there is a shout from an alley not too far from Edgar's burned out house.

There is a Whitecloak amongst us who is extremely sharp of eye, it seems, because we have already searched this alley twice, but once he reveals what he has found I can understand why we have missed it. The entrance has been artfully hidden by a stack of mildewed and mossy firewood. It is an artful and clever disguise, because the wood is all nailed together and hinged to the wall. It rolls aside very easily – the whole lot has been hollowed out – and the lad who found it seems quite impressed with himself.

He points to scuff marks on the cobbles – evidence of where the wood pile has been pulled away before – and almost glows when Hob gives him an approving look. It is all he gives – no more than a look – but from the reaction it gains it is high praise indeed.

The drain is cut directly into the stone of the mountain, roughly carven but large enough for a crouched man to walk through. It has rained heavily today, there should be water running through it, and I find the gulley meant to take the run-off a short pace away. It is dry with a dead shrub growing out of it – I do not think it has been in working order for a long time.

"The collapse must be further up," I say, peering into the darkness. I can see nothing but more darkness, but I can feel something… a fracture, a discordance in the hum of the mountain. "There is an instability in the stone. It is not immediate, not unless we start crashing about in there, but this is not a safe path."

"Even so, it is a path we must take." Hob peers into the dark, his face very serious and focussed. I do not think that he wishes to go in there any longer. "Can you tell how far we must go?"

"This path chokes into nothing perhaps a hundred steps from here," I tell him. "I cannot tell you where it has opened to the caverns though. I can feel that they are there, but the whole mountain is pocketed with small voids and it echoes terribly."

"A hundred steps," he nods. "That is not so bad."

He turns, gestures, and one of the men comes forward with a good number of torches he has tied together and slung across his shoulder. He crouches to the ground and starts to untie them, to pull out his tinderbox, and I grimace. _Men_. I would have done this easier in darkness – light blinds the eyes underground – but this is likely better than them walking into walls or falling over their feet the whole time.

"Larke, Ren and Mouse will come with us into the tunnels. Hamar and Céorl – Mistress Breda is expecting you; go and fetch Sig and take him to the Magister's office, the rest of you guard this entrance. If anything larger than a spider comes out, catch it."

"How large a spider, sir?" comes a faceless voice, and there is a murmur of laughter.

"You are quite right, Galen, we should catch them all to be certain. I will leave that in your hands."

There is a groan and more laughter, and I turn to Larke and Ren who do not look happy at all. Our other companion is the lad who found this entrance to begin with, and although he was not named Mouse by his parents – I am quite certain of it – I have never met a more mouse-like fellow in all of my days. He is small and slight, alarmingly young, but he has already proven himself observant and sharp eyed. He offers to go first, but I shake my head.

"There is no point in bringing a dwarf if you are to put him at the back, laddie," I tell him. "I would see better from the front."

Hob nods his assent, takes up a torch now that they are lit, and we are on our way.

~{O}~

The tunnel is thankfully dry and filled with the crackle of dead leaves and twigs. It is distressingly filled with cobwebs, but I would be a terrible dwarf if such things bothered me. I am entertained by the soft sounds of horror from directly behind me – I think perhaps Ren dislikes spiders – and I hear him muttering unkind things about me. I am meant to hear them, and I cannot help but smile, because sometimes being shorter than everyone else has advantages. Not having to duck in tunnels is one, and another is in not protecting everyone else from cobwebs with my own face.

I run my hand along the stone wall as I walk, feeling the roughness and dry rasp against my skin, but something deeper and bigger in my heart. The Song of Mahal does not speak, it is not a map, but a dwarf who paid attention in his lessons can learn to interpret it, and I paid very close attention.

The Song is like a constant dirge, a deep hum, huge and rooted in the heart of the world. It is not as beautiful as the Song of Iluvatar – not as frightening or endless or humbling – but to me it is familiar and known, and it is fine in my eye. I have learned to tell the slightest change in pitch, the most minor echo and reverberation of the mountains, and from it I can read the stone. I keep half an ear on it, partly because I do not love stone enough to be entombed in it should it collapse, and mostly because it is what I am here for.

"The wall is thinnest here," I say, my voice flat and echoing. "If there is a way through, it will be nearby."

"How large do you imagine the spiders might be?" I hear Ren murmur to Larke as they start to search.

"I have fought the giant spiders of Mirkwood," I say conversationally. "They can grow as large as a horse, easily, and that is without the legs. The small ones though, the ones the size of hounds… you can dispatch them easily enough with an axe, but they make a terrible mess."

Ren gags audibly and Larke snorts into a laugh.

"That is enough," Hob stops us, giving me a disappointed look although I give him my most innocent.

"Here, sir… sirs," Mouse calls out, and we turn and follow his voice.

"Lad, you have the eyes of an elf," I tell him, because this door is another masterpiece in camouflage. The wood sits almost exactly flush with the wall – not a seam or a gap or a visible hinge – and it has been stained and distressed so that it does not look like wood at all. The problem, though, is that it has been constructed so that there is no way in. It is completely tight to the wall, and Larke pokes his finger so that a small piece of wood pops out. There is a keyhole, but I am unsure how useful that might be.

"I am going to have to break it down," I sigh sadly, shrugging my axe from my across my back. "This is a work of art."

"We could knock," Ren suggests. We all turn to him, blinking as though the thought never occurred to us, and he reaches past to rap on the wood. We all wait, curious, but after a long time in silence I resume just as I was. I hear Larke call his friend an idiot beneath his breath, and there is a slight 'oof' as he is elbowed in the ribs for it.

I set to the door with my axe, grimacing as the first strike splinters the wood. It is a shame, a true shame, but I feel a bit better once I realise that the door is not as well constructed as I first thought. The wood is dry and not very thick, and my axe sinks into it easily. I make short work of it and it is not long before I am kicking the last of it free, and I stand aside so that Hob can stick his head through the entrance.

We have no time to explore though, despite that this is all I have wanted to do since we entered this tunnel. There is a shift and a shuffle of footsteps, and then a man comes barrelling out of the newly opened doorway.

There is chaos then, just for a second, because it is difficult to catch an escaping man with burning torches in your hands. The light fractures, we are plunged into darkness, and there is a lot of noise and scuffling and shouting. I stay clear, there are more than enough men in the fray and one more will only cause confusion. It is not long at all before the sounds die down, and all that I can hear is Hob shouting, and some unknown person panting and keening in fright.

"Stay down!" Hob bellows angrily. "Stop fighting!"

I pick up one of the torches, still guttering and struggling for life on the ground, and I hand it to Mouse who looks far too calm for what has just happened. There is a man on the ground, wild eyed and terrified, pinned down by Larke and with Hob's knee in his spine, but the captain rises as I approach. Larke drags him up, shoves him against the wall, and our quarry looks at us all in horror. He looks terrified, and I do not think that it is us he is afraid of.

Edgar is not much older than his brother, but he is certainly a fully grown man. His hair is lank and dirty, covering eyes of bright blue, and if he were a bit cleaner he might almost be considered handsome. He has a finely boned face and a beard that is starting to grow unruly, but I think it might usually be well kempt. His clothes are patched and worn, but although they are dirty now I think he has pride in himself most of the time. He looks at us, looks hard, realises that we are men of the King and his whole body slumps in relief. I can hear his breath rasping in the quiet, slight catches of fright still hitching his chest, and the tension falls out of the air in just a moment.

"Edgar, I presume?" I ask, strapping my axe safely away and approaching.

"You have been a difficult man to find," Hob accuses. He is still tightly wound from the surprise and the fight, and he sounds quite frightening.

"Not difficult enough," Edgar replies, and his voice is dry and hoarse. Larke hands him a water skin and he drinks greedily, water spilling down his chin and shirt front. "How did you find me?" he asks once he is done.

"That hardly matters," Hob scowls. "We have questions for you. Many questions indeed. Larke get him up – I am not doing this here."

"No!" Edgar panics again, his eyes flying wide open again. He grips Larke's hand where it is fisted in his tunic, and I notice something. His hand, he uses his left, and when I look closer I see why. Edgar's right arm is wasted, shrivelled, hanging limp and useless at his side.

"You _did_ write the journal," I frown. It is not what I expected. "The handwriting, it was poor; your left hand is not your dominant one."

"This," Edgar gestures at his crippled right arm, his tone bitter and angry. "It happened when the city was invaded. Your writing would be poor as well if you had lost an arm."

Hob looks at Larke, gestures, and Edgar is released. Apparently we are doing this here after all.

"Edgar, what happened?" Hob asks, and this time his tone is more reasonable. He crouches before the man, invites his confidence. "Your brother…"

Edgar's face crumples, the grief crushing and terrible, but he seems a proud man. He rubs the tears away, sets his jaw, but the devastation is still there is his eyes.

"Did he suffer?" he asks quietly, and he pins Hob with pale blue eyes full of hurt and grief. "Would he have known?"

Hob pauses, thinks, bows his head for a moment.

"It would have been quick," he promises.

I saw the body. I saw Wynn's face, I saw the wound. I saw how long he would have bled for and how he was completely alone. I saw how he was left as he was, how no one in the houses around him would even admit to seeing anything, let alone granting the boy aid. I saw.

Wynn's death was not a good death, but sometimes there can be kindness in a lie.

~{O}~

We have moved. Edgar has taken us into his bolt hole, and it is cramped and small but there are many black tunnels leading away into the depth of Mindolluin. I eye them curiously, the wish to explore burning in my veins, but I have a purpose here and so I focus.

Edgar has barrels of supplies in here, small but comfortable enough to sit on, and I look around at the mussed pallet that has been his bed, the mess and dust and dirt. This is unpleasant… functional as a refuge, but not somewhere I would like to stay for long. I sit, Hob sits, Edgar drops wearily into his nest of blankets and rests against the stone wall but the three Whitecloaks stay standing. They keep watch as Edgar tells his story.

"I do not know who they are," he tells us. "They never told me, although I asked. They came to me in the winter, found me in the Crooked Gate and bought me some wine – said I was the sort of fellow they were looking to speak to. I was deep in my cups and would have listened to anyone who bought me wine, and what they offered I could not refuse. Employment – nothing fancy, an assistant for an herb seller, but something that would bring me some income. All I had to do was write the damned journal and contact a friend I had – a lad who I knew, working as a provost – and give it to him. That was all. Then I could move to the third circle, be respectable, look after my little brother instead of him looking after me… maybe give Sig a home, too."

He trails off, and I see grief and self-pity wash over him once more. We grant him his privacy, grant him a moment, and he gathers himself once more.

"Wynn found the journal," he says, clearing his throat, his words thick with rancour. "The night I was to meet, to hand it over, he found it. He ran off with it before I could do anything, said what I was doing was wrong. Said I was betraying the people that looked after us – looked after _all_ of us on the second – and perhaps he was right but what matter was it? The Steward can handle anything put our way, it was naught but a journal… if the King's men came to the second circle, routed it all and imposed law on this wretched place then it is the best thing for it!"

He heaves, angry, pushed past peace into nothing but emotion but again, we leave him in silence. To interrupt him now might silence him, and he is speaking freely.

"I searched for him all night, searched everywhere; missed my meeting with the provost but I hardly cared. They came to me in the morning, the men who made me write that journal. Told me Wynn was dead. Told me they left the journal on him so it could be found by you… the Whitecloaks, they've been calling you. Said it was better this way… better to get it into the right hands. But I had a copy, you see – the one they gave to me so I knew what to write. They wanted it back but I would not give it to them, not after they killed my brother. I hid it, and when they burned my house I ran… ran here and I have been here ever since."

He stops, and I think he is done. We allow the silence for a long time to be sure, and when he says nothing else I speak.

"Why did they want the other journal back?" I ask him. "If it is nothing but a copy, why is it so important?"

"Ah," he smiles, finally, and I see the first hint of pride in him. He lifts his head, meets our eyes squarely. "This arm has taken everything from me; I cannot work or make much of myself, not as I could, but there is one thing I could always do – no matter which hand I used – and that is draw. All manner of things, anything I see, and I am good with faces. Paper is scarce, expensive, and I drew them at the back of the journal because I like to draw things. I told them I have their likeness, although I should not have… it has put me in danger, I should have kept my mouth shut. I do not know who they are or why they are doing this, but I certainly know what they look like."

I am shocked, surprised, and I think the others are as well. Perhaps Edgar is more than he seems, and Hob leans forward in interest.

"Where is the journal now?" he asks, and Edgar's leans forward as well.

"You will stop them?" he asks, but is does not sound like a request. It sounds like a demand. "You will make them pay for what they have done to my brother?"

"We will do all we can," Hob promises. "If we catch them, they will be brought to justice."

Edgar thinks, considers, nods and then rustles in his blankets. He pulls out a battered and worn journal.

"Then this is yours," he tells us.

~{O}~

We tell Edgar that that he will be safe with us, safe in custody in the Rookery, but he puts up such a fuss that we retreat for a while. The _edain_ are getting nervous, trapped in stone and without air or sky or sunlight, and so we retreat so that we can talk. We leave Edgar in his sanctuary, weeping over the loss of his brother, and we find the daylight so that we can regroup for a moment. Hob takes a huge lung of air once we are out of the tunnels, and we blink and squint in the sunlight, but it feels fine indeed to be out in the cold where the wind whistles past our ears.

Hob stands, hands on his hips and face tilted to the sunlight, and I give him a moment to gather himself before I speak.

"We could paper the walls of the second circle with copies of these pictures," I tell him, waggling this new journal in his direction, "but I do not think it will get us anywhere."

I have looked, of course I have looked, but all I have found is a drawing of three men. I do not recognise them; they are men, they look all look fairly similar to me and there is nothing particularly distinguishing about them.

"Then what do you suggest?" he asks me, turning now that he has composed himself.

I open my mouth as if to say something – I know not what – but suddenly I am beset with the strangest feeling. I clap my mouth shut, stand still and then stagger so that I am caught by strong and firm hands, but I do not know whose. I feel alarm, out of nowhere and with no cause at all, and it is brief and sudden but it is also blinding and huge. Something has happened, something is wrong… terribly wrong.

 _"_ _Legolas,"_ I breathe, and once I have said it I know that it is true. What I am feeling is not my own experience but rather his, strong enough to affect me no matter the distance. Something has happened, but it has happened to him.

Suddenly there is nothing more important. Suddenly, everything we do here pales into insignificance.

"I must go," I tell Hob, shucking free of whoever has caught me, and he looks astounded, surprised. I am already walking away and he jogs to catch up with me.

"What are you doing?" he demands.

"Something is wrong," I tell him, shoving the journal into his chest. "Something is wrong with the elf, I must go!"

"How could you possibly know that?" he demands.

"I simply do!" I tell him, whirling to face him. He reaches to grip my elbow but I twist away, bat his hand, and he takes a step back but narrows his eyes. He thinks, just for a moment, and then turns to his men.

"Larke, go with him," he instructs, but I do not wait for my guide; I turn upon my heel and I am already on my way. I hear the tap of hurried footsteps behind me and I know I am not alone.

Legolas. Something is wrong with Legolas.

I know it just as I know that the sky is blue. I know it to be real, no dream or imagining, and I recall the sensation over and over again, examine it as best I can. Alarm… nothing more than alarm, but it is not this that worries me most, it is the silence afterward.

I do not pay much attention to the link that the Shadow has granted us, indeed I have grown far too used to it. I think perhaps I have acclimatised far too much because it seems I imagined it an occasional thing, here and then gone, from time to time. It seems this is not the case; I think perhaps it is there more often than I realised, because now it is gone completely and it is like a shard of ice in my heart. Our link, our precious and cursed link, it is gone completely. Legolas is not there any longer… something has happened to him.

I pause once, twice, three times and I whistle to him. I send it clear and sharp into the wind, a piercing call that he has always responded to… always called back, always returned to me when I needed it. I change my call from a query on location to a request for help – because surely he cannot ignore that – but although I whistle, although I call to him, Legolas does not reply.

I call for him, my whistles echo back to me on the wind: lonely, mournful, but Legolas does not call back.

I do not know what to do.

TBC

* * *

 **To be fair, I think I've been extremely restrained with my cliffhangers in this fic. You cannot be cross with me; I think we all knew I was going to sneak one in there somewhere and I did warn you!**

 **So yes, what on earth has he done to himself this time?! Unfortunately this now marks the start of my brief hiatus in posting, so I'm going to have to leave you to ponder on this for a bit longer than usual. I haven't written a single word since my last posting, not one, and I really do need to catch up if this fic is going to keep up the pace I have set for myself. I've also written myself into a bit of a corner, which I need to sort out before I post anything else because it gives me a bit of space to retcon if I need to. I shouldn't be gone for too long though, fear not!**

 **Hopefully you all enjoyed the chapter, please let me know in the reviews - because hearing from you is basically the reason I keep posting - and I'd be interested to hear any of your guesses as to where this story might be going. Apart from Cheekybeak, because she'll only guess the entire plotline as per usual, which is actually a bit annoying ;) jk**

 **Hope you all have a great weekend, and you will hear from me after my break (unless you review, in which case you will hear from me much sooner) :)**

 **MyselfOnly**


	8. Chapter 8

"Gimli you must calm yourself," Aragorn grips my upper arms, and it is painful and tight but I cannot listen to him. I cannot… I simply cannot. I am pacing, angry, agitated and mad, and I bat his hands away and push him aside. "You do not know for certain that anything is wrong!" he says, and I whirl on him. I hiss, curl my lip in anger, and I am acting more like the elfling than myself but I do not care.

"You have no idea what you say," I snap. "You have not asked, and we have not said, but Aragorn… if I tell you that something is wrong with him then _something is wrong_."

"Gimli you must calm so that we may speak!" Arwen interjects, and there is something in her tone… something desperate and frightened and urgent that makes me realise I am not alone in my fear. I stop, I look out of the window at the bruised blue sky. All day… we have looked all day. The oil merchants recall him, two out of four of them. They remember seeing him, remember telling him that they would send their sales ledgers to the Rookery, but he never made it as far as the third or fourth seller. There is no mark of his passage after that, no sign of where he went or what happened. He is simply gone.

"Do you feel anything?" she asks, her tone on the edge of fright.

"No," I snap back at her, raking my hand across my hair, "but that means nothing… nothing at all. It is inconsistent now, it is not how it was. You!" I whirl at Larke where he guards the door, and his eyes widen. "What news do you have?! You have snakes and ferrets in every corner and tavern in this city."

"Well master Gimli," he bows deeply, "neither our snakes nor our ferrets have anything to report."

"Do not be so glib," I snarl. "What of the boy?"

"He is being questioned," Hob tells me from where he sits, looking at me as though I have gone mad. He seems calm – far too calm – and a part of me knows that he is simply reacting to my insanity, but that part of me is not being very rational at the moment. The rest of me is angry that he can seem so unruffled. "Take me to him."

"I do not think I will do that, master Gimli," he shakes his head, and has the audacity to look neither contrite nor apologetic.

"You will take me to him," I say, "or I will find him by myself."

" _Gimli_ ," Aragorn snaps, and I think he has finally lost his patience with me. His voice cuts through the panic, the blind fear, as though it is a blade – reason and steadiness, and I grab onto it like a drowning man. I let it ground me… take a deep breath, then two. "Absolutely nothing will come of you terrifying the wits out of a child. He is being questioned, half of the city is out looking for Legolas. You can either join them – I will come with you – or you can sit down and rest for a while. It is your choice. We will find him Gimli," his voice softens, gentles, and suddenly I can hear all of the fear and worry and exhaustion he must be feeling right now. "We will find him."

And just like that, everything drains from me.

I sink into a chair, hide my head in my hands, and I hear the rustling and silent retreat of Hob and his men but I do not look up. I feel Arwen rest her hand upon my hair, feel her kiss my head gently, and then she is gone too. I know not where, but I do not think she will be resting. I think she will be involving herself in the search somehow, because how can she not? Why am I not doing the same?

"Drink," I hear, and I look up to see a cup offered in my direction. I take it through reflex, and it is almost uncomfortably hot. The ache of the heat in my hands grounds me further and I clutch it, taking respite in the sensation. I focus on it with everything I have, but still I cannot quiet my heart. I feel as though I am about to fly away upon the wind, a thousand tattered shreds.

"What if…?" I begin, but I cannot finish. I cannot think of the words. I cannot think of anything that would adequately put voice to how afraid I am, because what if we have come through everything – fought and lost and battled and endured – only for me to lose him now? Legolas and I have shared a heart, shared a mind. We have experienced the world through one another's eyes. The bond that we have… if something has happened to him, I do not know how to be on my own any longer.

"Legolas is strong," Aragorn says, settling into a chair opposite me. He falls deeply into it, a boneless slouch of exhaustion, and he closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose. "He has always been strong. We always underestimate him."

I snort a laugh, because I cannot help myself, and there is a silence that goes on for a long time. I feel every beat of my heart dragging me further into weariness, and I sit back. I sip at the tea but I do not taste it.

"This winter past," I say, my words slow as I find them. Aragorn opens his eyes and listens, but he does not move other than that. "This winter I saw him fight thirty orcs, all alone, and he was unarmed with both hands tied. I have never seen such a thing before. I think he is a fool, an utter fool, but he is a brave one and I do not underestimate him; I simply know him too well. That is why I worry."

"It is more than that," he murmurs, and I nod. Damn him, because he always understands far better than anyone else ever has. He can read me as though my mind and heart are written upon a page.

"Aye," I breathe. "It is more than that. After everything that we have done laddie, after all of it, he is too precious to me to lose. Over and over again I thought him gone. It has made me nervous about him."

Aragorn smiles, a pale thing, but it is an effort and I appreciate it.

"Tell me," he urges, and I know exactly what he means. I could change the subject right now and he would allow it. I could refuse and he would say nothing, nothing at all, but as the fear and worry start to give way to exhaustion I feel the fight in me drain away into something empty and painful.

I feel alone, alone as I never do with Legolas here; his stray thoughts and ragged emotions flitting across my heart all of the time, and I had never realised how much I might miss it. When we were parted these last months it was different – I knew where he was, I knew that he was safe – but now… Eru I would give anything to feel it again.

Aragorn is watching me, careful and unobtrusive, and I need to feel something like that again. I need to feel close, to know that I am with someone who understands me, and by Mahal the lad deserves it. He has been patient and careful and kind, and we have done nothing but shut him out.

And so I tell him.

From the moment we left here in the early winter, I tell him everything that has happened to us, and at first he listens quietly and allows me my silence, but after a while it changes. I fall into it, I warm to the tale, and Aragorn is entirely captured – his eyes wide as I describe the more exciting parts of our adventure.

Legolas has always told me that I tell a good tale. He says that I have a skill, and that if I ever tire of him I can make a living as a Storymaster, but he is often poking fun at me and I usually hit him when he says such things. Even so, I enjoy the telling of a story – the weaving of words and the build of atmosphere, the way my audience reacts when I have told it well.

I employ none of these things. I simply tell him how it was.

Grey eyes sparkle with excitement as I describe the storm in which we saved a family: a cart tipped over the edge of a ravine with a child aboard, rain hammering down upon us – a flood that seemed as though it would never stop – and Legolas climbing over the beleaguered cart without any sense of his own safety. All to rescue a child he did not know.

He is on the edge of his seat as I tell him of our battle with a pack of wargs: the race to find somewhere that we might fight them, the ensuing battle, and how Legolas' mercy ultimately saved us later. I tell him of Legolas' madness when Faelwen was hurt by Callen, of a huge black cat that nearly killed the Woodland King, and of an orc pinned to a tree and left to die.

He is enraged when I tell him of the betrayal at Bray, where the villagers took us captive and handed Legolas over to the darkness like tribute, and he grins in pride and delight when I tell him exactly how that ended. His anger turns to grief though, when I tell him of the price that village paid, and he listens in interest when I describe to him the hidden valley where they now live. Rowan's valley – safe and secure, and where Calder now is.

I tell him of how Legolas and I first formed our bond, and how it grew and flourished and how many arguments we had over it. He tells me that we are idiots for ever having done such a thing in the first place, but I wave it away; he was not there to come up with any better ideas.

I tell him of the crossing to Burned Sycamore Standing, and how I will probably never travel by boat again if I can help it, and I tell him of the massacre there. But then it becomes harder…

I have told Aragorn what it was like to feel the Shadow forcing her memories upon me, there to grow and form so that her story could be told. I have told him what it was like, all of those months, to watch Legolas in pain… so much pain, as the Shadow twisted and turned in response to Callen. I have described how awful it was once it was finally torn free of him, although it granted him a short reprieve, and I have spent a while trying to describe exactly what it is like to share a mind with an elf, although it is difficult indeed. It is like trying to describe a feeling, or a smell. It is ephemeral and visceral and does not translate, but I try, and Aragorn listens, and I think I get across a small glimmer of it.

Now though, I must tell him of Legolas' death, and what I did to him. I must speak of my selfishness, and the price he paid for what I did. I broke him… I broke him utterly, and I do not know that he will ever recover. I tell him what happened, and I tell him how I made the decision – finally – to end his suffering myself, because I caused it. Eru, I caused him so much pain.

I take him into the deepness of the _Hithaeglir_ , upon a midnight river with no ripple or breeze to mar its surface, and I describe how it came to be that the nightmare of the Shadow finally ended. I describe it all to him in great detail. How I was ready to kill the elfling – my brother in blood, my greatest friend – and how I was ready to die there myself. How we were saved by her, in a way.

I talk and I talk, and it takes forever… just the two of us, lit by candle and firelight, in a warm room in the mountain. It is a spell made with words, drawing the two of us closely, and it is my voice that weaves it. I remember every moment vividly, painfully, and something happens – something I had not expected, not in all these months gone.

By Eru… it starts to hurt less.

It is like a lanced wound, a river of poison and hurt and loss pouring out and leaving me empty but clean. I tell him all of it – sometimes I go back and re-tell a thing or two, describing it more clearly or simply because I need to say it again – and all of the way through Aragorn listens. He asks no questions, although I can see that he burns with them, and I am thankful to him for his silence. I need this, I need it so badly, and this man is a friend I do not deserve.

When I am done, when I am finally empty and drained and exhausted, Aragorn smiles at me. It is gentle and I know that he loves me – this brother of mine – but I have never seen it so plainly across his face before. He allows a long silence, because my tale warrants it, and then all he says is:

"I would have done the same thing, Gimli."

And I start to weep like a child.

~{O}~

I fall asleep in my chair, because I simply have nothing left in me. I am wrung out like a rag, both in body and heart, and when I hear the first birds of dawn it is faint and far away. I drift into sleep, and I fall into a dream as though it has been waiting for me. And perhaps it has.

A number of times I have been here, and it has been different each one of them.

I am on the edge of a wood, and I have been here before with Legolas – the real Legolas, and the real wood – but we seem to keep finding our way back. This clearing: wild, tangled, deep in the heart of the forest… I think perhaps it is where we meet.

It is where Legolas' fëa, and whatever similar thing I have touch against one another. A true meeting place.

I can hear birds calling, far deep in the forest behind, and it is dark and frightening but I face the rising of the sun. Here is it open and bright, and it is spring where it was winter when last I saw it. Legolas was dying, almost gone, and he was nothing but the silhouette of an archer in the distance. Fading. Leaving.

This time he is waiting.

He looks different, and I have learned that here – in this place – what I see is the Legolas that he hides from the world. This is the truest version of him, and I am dismayed by it, because I do not think that he is recovering as well as he has said. The Legolas before me is barefoot, grass stained and soil smudged. His hair is loose – no warrior braids at all – and it is tangled and unkempt. He wears simple clothing, although I think it was once quite nicely made, but it has been much abused and torn by bramble and briar.

This Legolas is young, far younger than I had ever pictured him being. He looks naught but a grown lad, and there the resemblance to an elf ends because this thing is wild. He is no more similar to me than a fox is, or a hare or a bird. He was born in this wood, he sleeps beneath trees and in the rain, and he runs through the forest trails when the wind is high. His eyes burn like stars, darts of summer blue, and this is Legolas as he was… this is the _laegrim_ elf that was never truly tamed: the one who came out of the woods, who left behind joy and a freedom that I will never know. Who was followed by his friends out of the forest, picked up a bow, and built a wall in his heart so that he could shut off that part of him… left it all behind in defence of his home. Out of the trees and into war.

This is the Legolas that I have made of him, because I took those walls away.

I walk, and he falls into step beside me, and it is just the way it ever is between us. We walk through tangles of winter-wilted grasses, brown and thatched solid, but with spikes of pale green poking through. Blades of bluebells pierce the ground, some with tight clusters of white buds that will soon be flowers of blue and purple and pink. Gorse flowers of bright yellow splash colour into the nude undergrowth, catkins hang heavy in the branches and everywhere there is sign of new life. It is a land returning, growing strong again, and the sun is weak and thin but it is warm.

"Where are you, Legolas?" I ask him, because I still do not know for certain whether this is him or if this is a dream. I have experienced both – when it has been him, and when it has not. My voice sounds small, childish and lost, but I do not care. Seeing him here awakens an ache in my chest, and I do not miss him this way when he is absent, but he is not absent, he is lost.

"I do not know, Gimli," he says softly. "I think that I have hurt my head; I cannot recall much. I cannot wake, and I do not know how long I can stay here. My mind drifts."

He huffs, a frustrated thing, and rakes tangled hair back away from his face. It is heartbreakingly familiar. "It is like mist," he murmurs, distracted and distant. "Like seeing through a fog."

"Try," I push. "You must try, my friend."

He looks agonised, his face twisting as he tries to remember, tries to recall what happened to him, and it is painful to see on this face of his. Young… too young to look so pained. He is looking toward the horizon, his gaze captured as though I am no longer with him, and I know what lies beyond this clearing. I know what he looks toward, because I have seen him there before.

There is a strange constant about this place of ours, and it is that no matter how far we walk, we never go anywhere. The trees behind us are exactly where they were, the sun does not move… we walk but we are frozen in place. Legolas has found his way free once – just once – when he lay dying upon the shores of the Anduin, and I had to break him to bring him back. It is not something I can do again. Even if I could, I would not.

"Do not look to the distance," I warn him, and he tears his gaze away, meets mine. He knows what lies beyond this horizon just as I do, and after a while his eyes clear. He shakes free of this fog of his, cuts through it, and for a moment I see my Legolas there. He smiles, gentle and fond and true, and he goes as if to rest his hand upon my shoulder but he does not.

"Do not fear, my friend," he reassures me. "We have horizons of our own to reach, many indeed before I mean to explore this one."

I make a noise, although I am not sure that I had meant to, and it is many things: relief, a warning that he be certain to keep to his word, an assent… I do not know.

"The sea," he says finally, and I blink in confusion. "I remember. It smells like the sea."

I frown, confused, because we are rather far from the sea.

I open my mouth, I have a thousand questions, but the forest is fading and the image of Legolas is slipping away like mist. I battle against it, I fight and I struggle endlessly to hold onto this dream or hallucination or whatever this might be, because how can this help?! I could have found out where he is and instead I am left with a thousand more questions, but it is of no use. The images splinter and fade, I return to myself, and where before I knew the scent of a spring breeze with wet soil underfoot, I am increasingly aware of how uncomfortable this chair is, and that I have a terrible crick in my neck.

I am back in Minas Tirith, back in Aragorn's rooms, and I am sat in the midst of an argument.

I rub my eyes, I scowl deeply – how infuriating! Even in my dreams he speaks nothing but riddles – but I do not move. I take a moment to orient myself again, and I think perhaps if I stir I will interrupt the argument that is happening in the next room. I stay as I am and I listen.

"I do not care, captain," Aragorn is saying, and he is in full ire. Aragorn does not shout very often, and if this were any other person but him then I would not call it shouting at all, but my ranger friend can convey much with very little variance in his tone or volume. It is elevated, certainly, but he is nothing but ice and fire. It is granite hard, oak solid, and he sounds exactly the way an angry King should sound. I am not even in the same room and I am cowed by it.

"The elf that you seek is not simply my friend, he is a visiting royal. My relations with King Thranduil matter far more to this Kingdom than the feelings of thieves and assassins. If he finds out that I have allowed his son to be killed in my city he will seek his own justice, and what he brings down upon our walls will be far worse than anything I mete out. If the Steward will not speak with me, then I will cut out the rot and ruin in Minas Tirith and build it anew."

There is a mumble, hushed voices that I strain to hear, and then Aragorn again. Iron cold, angry.

"I say it again, Captain Hob: take the Whitecloaks and the City Guard, mounted and armed, and descend upon the second circle. Destroy the card houses and the brothels if you must, bring them to ruin, and I expect every gaol to be full by the end of the day. Bring it all down, and if you will not do it then I will find someone who will."

There is silence then, thick and heavy, and I hear the scuff of a turned heel – the sharp click of boot upon stone as someone leaves. The doors slam a bit more heavily than is probably warranted, and then there is a sigh.

"Was that really necessary?" I ask, and I do not need to raise my voice. He can hear me well enough. Aragorn appears in the room and slumps right back into the chair he was sat in when I saw him last. He fidgets, twitches, gets up and flings the curtains wide. I blink in cold white sunlight. It is morning, but only just.

Aragorn does not fidget, he certainly does not twitch, but even so he continues doing it. He paces the room and I watch him carefully, stretching until my joints pop and crack.

"You realise he is going straight to Lady Briar to tell her what you plan to do."

"That is what I _want_ him to do, Gimli," he sighs. "He would not go unless I gave him sufficient cause, but I fear I have just ruined all chances of a favourable relationship with her."

"She is loyal to you," I shrug, "and to be frank, my friend, I think this might be the cleverest thing you have done in a while. She is afraid of this exact situation, and she values people of strength. You have started off in a position of great power, right from the outset, and she will come to you."

"No negotiation should be carried out with such an imbalance of power," he shakes his head. "It breeds distrust, and the weaker party will always be looking for a way to level things. She is powerful enough to cause much damage."

"You are the King," I disagree. "You will always start in a position of greater power. You know this; you have never done anything without thinking it through. Have you slept at all?"

"I could lie if you wish?" he makes a vague sort of gesture with his hand, distracted and elegant, and it is a very elven thing to do.

"Where is Arwen?" I ask, finally standing and stretching out the last few kinks in my spine. I am still trying to sort out my own thoughts, still considering my encounter with Legolas in my dream, and I have found that speaking of Arwen distracts Aragorn. It should give me time to decide how I should tell him about our conversation, but instead he snorts and scowls. He plonks himself down in a chair quite gracelessly.

"Now _there_ is a hypocrite, if ever I knew one! She is my moon and stars, the sun in my very sky, but she has been terribly ruined by her brothers. She spent half of the night lecturing me because I was not resting, and the other half closeted away with Ren and Larke trying to solve this murder of ours. She says that it is keeping her busy – if I will not let her search the city with everyone else then she will continue what you and Legolas began."

I blink, surprised, and I admit that my mind is slow this morning. I am tired, worn out by worry, and the words sink in slowly. I cannot help but feel a flicker of interest.

"Has she got very far?" I ask, and am given a filthy look. I think perhaps I was meant to throw my hands up in outrage, but instead I shrug. "It is not the worst way for her to spend her time; she is very clever."

"Aye," he bites, "and it has gone so well for you and Legolas, after all; I will not have a target on my wife's back as well, but there is no speaking to her."

"I do not imagine Arwen has had to ask permission for anything before in her life," I am done stretching, and now I am starting to feel anxious and edgy again. "I do not think she is going to start now. Elves are woefully stubborn."

He snorts again, but I can feel that he is watching me carefully. He has picked up on my mood; I am starting to feel the faintest flickers of panic creep upon the edge of my mind again. I am stood like a dolt in a room with nowhere to go and nothing to do, I am useless!

The elfling… _where is the elfling?_

"Come," Aragorn says abruptly, standing and tugging my elbow. "We are the only ones not gathered – we might as well see if they have made any progress."

And he leads me out of the room, through into corridors and hallways, but I do not speak because my mind is elsewhere. I keep seeing him, over and over again… images in my mind that I cannot control. Sunlight gold hair and blue eyes that can change from fey madness to soft kindness in an instant. The way he stands, walks, the grace of him. The soft timbre of his voice, thickly accented because he has not had cause or chance to soften it. I image all of the terrible things that could be happening right now, and I feel sick.

Aragorn leads me through his halls, and I follow him like a child because I am completely lost. I do not know what to do.

~{O}~

The room that we find ourselves in is quite certainly one of Arwen's.

It is large and light and airy, the windows flung wide open despite that there is quite a breeze coming through them. There are potted plants everywhere, large and leafy, so that some of the corners look like wooded glens. There is barely any window space at all.

Arwen is Noldorin though, and although all elves favour the green places she has inherited her father's love of the written word. There are bookcases upon bookcases, heaving with scrolls and bound books of all sizes and shapes and colours. This is a well-loved library, and these books are not particularly well organised – shelved haphazardly. I know that should I ask her the location of any one of them, she could lead me straight to it. It is a library for reading, not for showing people.

The Queen sits curled in a chair, her feet tucked carefully beneath her, and she looks tired and vulnerable. Her hair is braided messily, her face even paler than usual, and I can see the same worry and care in the gaze that settles upon her husband as we walk in. She smiles, he goes to her and plants a gentle kiss upon her brow, but all I can see is that Sig is asleep in her lap.

"Why is he here?" I ask, mostly to myself, but it is far louder than I had intended.

"He was afraid," comes a voice, stern and disapproving. I turn to see Larke and Ren bent over a table spilling with maps and books. Larke is frowning at me. "He is not a prisoner, and when children are afraid it is usually right to comfort them."

I feel my face flush and I look away, abashed. I am shamed, and I must look contrite enough for the young guard, because he nods and returns to what he was doing. I take another moment to finish examining my surroundings. There is Moss asleep on the hearth, and it would be comical if I were in a mood to find anything amusing. He is a huge dog, and he is splayed on his back with his legs in the air like a pup. He stirs only briefly as I enter; trustful eyes opening, seeing someone he recognises, and then he is asleep again.

"How is he?" I ask quietly, meaning the boy, and it is Arwen that answers.

"He was terribly upset last night," she tells me, her voice velvet soft so as not to disturb him. "We showed him Edgar's drawings of the men and he cried until he fell asleep. I think they are accurate."

"I do not think that he will help us much," Ren tells me. "He meant no harm, master Gimli, he is nothing but a child. He is a victim in this as well, I think."

Both Larke and Ren seem tired as well – I think I am the only one to have had any form of rest tonight – but they seem to have been quite busy. I nod at what Ren has said, because I am not truly angry with the boy, not really, and I go to join them. I scan the maps of the city, lift one only to have it taken from me and put back down again, and my gaze lingers briefly on a table where stale looking refreshments are sat. My stomach squirms and I look away again. I cannot even think of food right now.

Instead I pick up the journal – not Edgar's, but the original. I leaf through it simply for something to do, something to occupy me, something that is not pacing the floor or smashing things apart.

This journal is much different, I realise: it is naught but a list of events, of facts and statements. These men gave Edgar nothing but the bones of a lie, nothing more than the plans from which the tale was to be wrought. It seems that there is more to Edgar's artistry than in capturing the likeness of men.

"The search continues," Larke tells me, and this time he seems kinder. His tone is careful and guarded, but he looks at me squarely and I can see nothing but compassion. He waves at the maps of the city, and of another series of curled parchment with spidery handwriting all over it. I place the journal down carefully, turn instead to the parchment, and this time when I pick it up it is not taken from me. I puzzle over it before I realise what it is.

"The oil sellers," I mutter, and Ren nods. His red hair stands up in licks and whorls as though he has been running his hands through it all night, and his eyes are red rimmed.

"The reports arrived last night," he tells me. "The two that Prince Legolas requested, and also the other two that we approached. It is of little help. The captain might have had an idea, but he has left on some errand… the prince might have worked something out; this was his idea after all. We are naught but soldiers!"

"You are Whitecloaks," I shake my head. "You were chosen by Hob, you two specifically and a few others, I know that you were. I am sure that there was reason for it."

"Apparently not," Ren sighs, and I cast my eye over the list again. It is nothing but names, dates and a detailed report of everything that was purchased. There is a running tally of cost and how it was paid, and I think perhaps that Ren became bored at one point in the night because there is also a very poor drawing of a cat in the corner.

"I spoke with him last night," I say, and I have been a bit afraid to say anything. I am glad that I have finally explained things to Aragorn, because although Ren gives me a curious look and Larke seems hesitant, their King perks up instantly.

"What did he say?" he asks quickly, striding over to us. "Where is he? Why did you not say so before?"

"He does not know," I sigh. "He was making even less sense than usual… he is hurt, he does not know where he is. But he lives, or at least he did. The sea…"

I trail off and do not continue, and Aragorn makes a sound similar to a growl.

" _Gimli_ ," he urges, and I clear my throat.

"He says that he smelled the sea."

There is silence then, silence for a long time, and I feel terribly awkward and useless. I toss the paper back onto the table in disgust but Larke snatches it up and returns to his studies, something urgent and agitated in his movements. I pay closer attention to him, but Aragorn continues to press for details.

"The sea?" he snorts. "What does that mean? Even if he had been taken from the city there is no possibility that he could be anywhere near the sea so quickly. Is it calling to him? Is that why he smells it?"

"I do not know, Aragorn!" I snap, and Arwen makes a soft sound of annoyance as Sig stirs. She glares daggers at me and I soften my voice, but only slightly. "I do not know. How could I possibly know?"

"You are tied to him, are you not?"

"It is not the way that you think it is," I scowl at him. I am starting to get annoyed, because I am tired and frightened and irritable, but Aragorn is starting to lose his composure and we are moments away from an argument. My friend might be a great leader, a noble and fine man, but he is still a man. Legolas is his friend too, he has known him his whole life, but at this moment in time I am too frayed and exposed to care. "Were you paying attention at all last night?"

His face tightens, his eyes narrow, and I might as well have slapped him in the face. I can see Arwen start to gather herself, ready to come between us, but Larke interrupts and diffuses the situation instantly.

"Here!" he says urgently, dragging the list of names across a map of the third circle. He jabs at the parchment, and I can see excitement start to light in his face. He burns suddenly, all exhaustion forgotten, and we join him. "This name here – I do not recognise it but I recognise this address; I had a friend who lived in this part of the city. There are deep vaults in this section of the fourth circle – terribly damp, not useful for anything except storing kelp."

He looks up, eyes glittering, and he is slightly crestfallen to see us blinking in confusion.

"Kelp?" I ask flatly.

"Seaweed," he nods, warming to the subject. He drags more papers over. "It is shipped in by the barrel. The soil here erodes too easily; it is sandy, and there is too much wind and rain. We mix it with the soil in the kitchen gardens otherwise nothing would grow, and it is stored here." He points at a section of the fourth circle, although it is nothing more than a place on a map to me. I start to feel the itching of excitement.

"I do not recognise this name," Ren mutters, skimming over the customer list. "My sister lives in the fourth, I know most business owners in this section. He paid in gold."

"Gold?" I frown, pulling the page toward me. I skim down the tallies and see that most of the oil is paid for in city coinage or traded for. The Chandler pays in candles, there is a rope seller than makes wicks for the oil burners to sell on… one woman even pays in pies, although it is an oddity. To pay in gold is not that unusual – not enough for Ren or Larke to have noticed before – but it is not entirely usual either. I hand the list back. "Well it is in the right area, and kelp would certainly smell of the sea. We should go quickly!"

I feel a burn of excitement, of urgency, and it burns through my gut like fire. I am suddenly awake, entirely alert, and both of the lads seem the same. They are thrilled at having discovered this thread – no matter how tenuous – because we might have just found Legolas!

"Gimli," Aragorn says, and his tone stops me dead. There is excitement as well, and hope, but there is also a warning. "Remember that there are things in motion."

"I know," I nod, our previous tension forgotten. "I know, Aragorn, but you do not need me immediately. We have time."

"And you have a wife," Arwen points out quietly, tilts her head expectantly when Aragorn goes to argue, but he is sensible enough to give up before he has begun. He nods, smiles, and I do not think that my friend is entirely used to this yet – to being one of a pair, to always have someone there to support him. They share a look, brief and fond and secret, and then she turns her attention to me.

Arwen is quiet – she watches more than she speaks – but she is far more clever than I am and far more experienced. She looks at me and nods, and I read in her heather-blue gaze all that I need. She tells me to go: to find him, to bring him back, to keep him safe. She promises to keep our Kingly _edain_ out of any real trouble, despite that he is trying to start a war with his own city, and I feel the most powerful surge of affection for this _elleth_ … who is perhaps my sister-in-law, if I truly see Aragorn as my brother. What a thing to think of at a time like this!

I feel my face twist into a smile, broadening then into a grin, because finally… finally I have something to do! We have a purpose and a goal, and I do not think for even a second that this might be a false lead. I can only focus on the possibility that we might have found him, and I do not think of anything else.

Larke and Ren seem fairly intent upon coming with me, and in truth I cannot find it in myself to argue with them. They start to gather themselves together, pulling their cloaks on and gathering their things, and before we leave Aragorn grabs at my elbow again and pulls me to him.

Our eyes meet and there is a lot there: apology, understanding, hope and fear… it is a lot of things, all at once, and I pat at his arm awkwardly. I do not say anything, because there is nothing to say.

Aragorn knows that I will bring him home if I find him, he knows that I am possibly the only person upon Arda who cares for the cursed elfling the way that he does. We say a lot without saying anything at all, and when he draws me in for a quick and tight embrace I allow it, because I think that he needs it.

We leave, and by Mahal I hope that I find something. I hope that I find him, I hope that I can bring the elfling back, because I am going to kill him for this.

TBC

* * *

 **So, my hiatus lasted a LOT longer than I originally intended. Would you like to know how much I wrote in that time?**  
 **Nothing. Not a thing. However, I really did need that time off - it's given me a bit of much needed space to get a few things sorted out in my personal life, and the writing bug has started to bite and itch again (finally! I was a bit worried it wouldn't come back)**

 **I am posting this despite the fact that I am no longer happy with the next chapter, so although I am posting again - because if I didn't then I don't think I ever would - I'm not sure whether I'll be sticking to the fortnightly posting as strictly as I was before. There won't be particularly huge gaps, not like there was in Silence, but I might need a bit longer to tinker with the chapters. I've changed something closer toward the end, so I need to subtly slide the changes into the rest of the fic.**

 **Anyway! I'm back now, and I really want to hear your thoughts on this chapter. It's a bit more character driven and not a huge amount happens other than some Minas Tirith style sleuthing, but it would have been a bit of a let down if they'd found him straight away. Especially since I've left you all hanging for ages!**

 **Speak to you all in the PMs, and have a great weekend :)**

 **MyselfOnly**


	9. Chapter 9

The fourth circle is one of homes and businesses and commerce. It is not the widest of the circles, by any means, but the streets seem spacious – more open. The homes and stalls and markets seem to be built into the stone – the edifices flat against the mountain, reaching deep inside – and so outside it seems far less cluttered. There are a lot of people out here and they seem happy and healthy, but they still watch us with guarded eyes as we ride past. The men that I ride with will never be a part of them, not truly… not again.

The kelp vaults are far to the east, right where the circle ends and the mountain begins. It is far less populated, virtually deserted, and it is a place where things are stored rather than where people live or trade. There are many tunnels dug into the mountain, barred by thick oaken doors with locks on them, and I imagine that this part of Mindolluin is pocketed by countless holes where boxes of things gather dust.

We leave our horses at a tavern, tucked away quietly, and we pay the stable-hand to keep his silence about our presence here. He is curious but will hold his tongue, and we make the rest of the way on foot, cloaked and hooded. There is little reason for our secrecy though; once we reach the vaults the streets are all but empty. By the time we find the right one, we have walked a good distance, and we are entirely alone.

Which makes it all the more curious as to why the vaults are guarded.

"Those are not city guards," Ren tells us, once we have retreated a short distance – huddled behind some discarded barrels like brigands. "The uniform is almost right, but they are wearing it wrong. Why bother dressing that way at all? It is not unusual for business owners to hire men to guard their wares – this is more suspicious than if they had not bothered at all."

"There is something odd about them," Ren muses, peering out, but Larke pulls him back under cover.

"It seems we are likely in the right place though," I shrug, and pull my axe over my shoulder and into my hands. I was not coming without proper armaments this time, and wearing my own proper clothes and carrying my proper weapons makes me feel as though I have been asleep for the last few days. I feel right… I feel like myself again. "Should we go and knock on the door?"

Larke makes a noise, and Ren gives me a look that says he knows I mean to knock on more than the door.

"There are only two of them," I point out.

"The kelp vaults are the largest here," Ren tells me. "They are far deeper than that door suggests, and there are three levels to them. I think there may be many more men within."

When has he had a chance to learn all of this? The lad has spent only a morning reading on these vaults and he has retained everything he has seen – he soaks up knowledge as though it is water! I scowl at him, because it is actually rather annoying, but the lad simply looks at me with those unreadable dark eyes and lifts one shoulder in response. Cleverness is not something to apologise for.

"We should fetch others," Ren suggests, and although I knew it was coming it still feels like a punch to the gut. He is correct, he is quite correct, but I know that Legolas is in there… _I know it,_ I know it with every fibre of my being. To be here now and to leave again? It is like a physical hurt. I do not know that I can do it.

"There is no need," Larke grips my shoulder painfully. He does not look at me, but he knows. "Whilst the two of you prepared I sent Mouse with two messages. The first was to go and find the man who bought distilled oil with gold, because he could not possibly be more suspicious, and the second was to bring us some reinforcements."

"We have spoken about this," Ren scowls at him. "You are not meant to make plans or do things without telling me about them. We have spoken at great length about it."

"How did the men searching the city miss this?" I ask, ignoring their exchange – which is mostly just Ren complaining. I am starting to see some distressing similarities between these two, and between myself and a certain kidnapped elfling.

"They wear the uniform wrong, but not many would have noticed," Larke tells me. "A man dressed as a city guard is trusted. There was a time once when they all knew one another, but not any longer, and with respect to them they are not as observant as we are."

"Or as humble," Ren mutters to himself. His tone changes again and he is conversing with Larke this time, although his gaze does not leave the doorway. "You are right, there is something odd about them."

"They are not moving at all," I point out, and both of the lads turn to look at me strangely. I frown. Cleverness is not just for young Whitecloaks. "Look at them; they are guarding a door but they do not fidget or shift or talk to one another or look about themselves. I have never seen guards on a menial duty do anything other than slouch or play cards, or perhaps take a nap. They are either extremely disciplined…"

"Or their captain is a terrifying man indeed," Larke finishes, and my silence is my agreement. We all fall into our thoughts then, we stand utterly still and wait, and I start to wonder exactly how long before Mouse and his reinforcements might arrive. It is galling to be standing, waiting for help when there are only two men at the door, but Larke's words keep echoing around in my head. It sends a chill through me and I do not know why.

But then something starts to stir, something in the back of my head like an itch, and by Eru this is bad timing. I can feel it in my heart and my mind, familiar and welcome, and I am filled with warring emotions: relief, because I have been straining to feel something like this since yesterday, but also annoyance and panic because this is _very bad timing_.

"No," I whisper beneath my breath. "Not now…"

"What?" Larke asks curiously, puzzled by the dread in my voice. I shake my head, struggle to find the words. How can they understand? They were not there last night when I explained everything to Aragorn, and although they have been remarkably patient with my mysterious comments prior to now, I do not know how far I might stretch things.

"Legolas," I explain. "He is awake, and he is fighting. Somewhere in there he is fighting his way free, and I have all of his weapons."

Both Larke and Ren are staring at me, and I do not meet their gaze because I can feel their disbelief without seeing it. They are silent for a long time, and out of the corner of my eye I can see them glance at one another as if questioning how to handle a mad dwarf. I have no time for it.

How to explain how it feels? How to explain to someone, to know… to simply _know_.

There are two layers to the elfling when he fights, usually. His mind is like a snowfall; calm and cold and still, focussed and clear. His heart though, that is like a wildfire: unbridled and furious, dangerous. It is two things layered on top of one another, and I have become too accustomed to it; I had stopped paying mind to it, stopped noticing, and as horrified as I am that he is doing this without me there – without help, without his blades – I cling to the sense of Legolas as though I have been drowning. Ai, I am so glad to feel it again!

I try to speak to him, and it is not words that I send but rather the sense of my own presence. I have done it before, I know how such a thing is managed, and for just a moment I feel the sense of him falter. Relief floods my mind for a moment, he knows that I am here, and then there is a jolt of impatience that tugs at me like a rope. He is wondering why I am dallying around outside and I almost laugh.

I go to leave, to approach the doors, and both Ren and Larke grab at my arms and hold me fast.

"Lads," I say calmly – far calmer than I feel – and I do not take my attention away from the door. "I am starting to become quite attached to the two of you, we might even be friends one day, but if you stop me from trying to help him then I will fight through you as well."

And now I do look at them, because I mean what I say and I would have them understand it. Ren looks alarmed, confused, completely out of his area of comfort but Larke is calm. I do not think that it is possible to ruffle this lad, not so that anyone could tell, but he examines me closely and I know that he believes me. He releases my arm.

"You are certain?" he demands, and I read in his voice what he does not say with his words. Am I certain enough to risk them as well, to put them in danger? Because if I go, then they will be coming with me. I am their charge and the friend of their King. They would not let me go alone.

"Utterly certain," I promise, and Larke nods.

"Then we will all go."

We make short work of the two guards at the door, but I think it is mostly because they are so surprised to see us. They fight well, despite that they are outnumbered and that we have appeared almost out of nowhere, and I start to feel a glimmer of worry about that. These are men of high calibre, well trained and battle hardened. I start to feel concern at what we will find inside.

At first we spend some time looking for keys upon their bodies, because if we can keep our advantage and remain quiet then we will do, but it seems these men have been guarding a locked door with no way of opening it. It is yet another sign that these men – whoever they are – are more than they seem to be. We consider trying to pick the lock but then we start to hear a commotion inside: shouting, voices raised in alarm, and I have reached the edge of whatever restraint I had left to me.

I destroy the door with barely an effort, and step over the wreckage with my axe in my hand. I stride into the darkness of an unknown battlefield, my only companions two young men with whom I have never fought before, and who I barely know. I feel all of my fear and guilt and anxiety boil away, and in their place there is only cold anger and a readiness for battle. I thrill with it, I burn with it, and somewhere inside of me I feel the Song of Iluvatar ringing through my veins – it is Legolas, calling me toward him.

Forest green and as gold as the dawn, tasting like the ash of battlefields and blood, and a thousand years of combat. It is darkness, and nights that never seemed to end. Legolas calls – the crazed fury of an elven heart without any protective walls, burning through my defences until I can feel it as well… can feel it as though it is my own.

With a grin that tastes like madness, I ready my axe, and I answer his call.

~{O}~

Eru it is as though we have disturbed a hornet's nest.

There are so many of them, more than I had expected by any stretch, and so we settle for speed rather than might. We try to make our way as deep into the tunnels as fast as we can, because I can feel the elfling – close, so close now – and we will be stronger together. If we can find him… if we can only get to him.

My companions surprise me, although I probably should not have been surprised; they are chosen men, after all.

Larke fights like an elf, but for a lad so slender and tall I had imagined his style to be similar to theirs. He is graceful and quick, and although he fights with a sword rather than knives, his blade is slender and light and he manages it as though it is made of air.

Ren, who is stockier and shorter, fights mostly with his hands. He is rooted to the earth like a tree, solid and strong, and although his movements are confident and practised he hits like a boulder. He finishes off his opponents with a blade that he keeps tucked close to his wrist, and I think perhaps I have been unfair to him. I have built up a picture of him in my mind: afraid of spiders, a little oafish, more likely to complain or make jokes than be serious about matters. I had imagined him the weaker of the two, but it is not so. He is a formidable fighter, and he and Larke fight together as though they have been raised from boyhood against one another's backs.

I pay little attention after that, because I have enough to get on with.

The men are quick and eerily silent. They do not shout or call out their battle cries, they attack without a word, but even so it is very loud. The tunnels are low ceilinged and narrow, and the sound of blade hitting blade echoes and distorts terribly. I can hear the heavy breathing of exertion, boots upon stone, metal clashing and also of blade meeting flesh – a terrible sound.

I have found of late that fighting with elves as often as I have has made me lean and quick, quiet and precise. I am still stronger, I still favour the axe over a blade and I still use my low height and powerful arms to greater advantage, but I no longer run into a fray bellowing and waving my weapons around. I fight my way methodically, quickly, and I cut a path for my companions as though we merely clear a path through overgrown trees. I am pulled onward, spurred toward the clear bell-like calling in my mind, and I run down the stairs as fast as I can, toppling men in my wake.

Larke and Ren follow me easily, although I hear Ren complaining and calling me names at the pace I am setting. I try not to think about how we are going to get back out again – because ploughing a path through surprised men, and escaping again once they have surrounded us is a very different thing – but one thing at a time. I can only focus on one problem.

I reach the foot of the stairs only to find even more tunnels branching out, and I take a left without thinking. Then there is a right, a long stretch to run down, another left and Eru this place is a labyrinth! My arms are starting to tire with the exertion but we are coming across fewer men, which helps our speed but not my concern as to where they all might be. Behind us, that is for certain, and between us and the way back out again.

Finally though, finally I know that I am near. Legolas is deafening; the singing thrills in my chest and I shout out his name, I call out to him, and my voice echoes back to me – once and then again – but then finally I hear him. I hear his voice, his real voice, and I burst through a door into a wide and open space. Surprising, after such narrow tunnels, and I stumble to a stop because it is idiocy to race into an unknown place.

The ceilings are still very low, Larke's head almost brushes the ceiling, but the walls are wide apart and I can smell brine and salt and dampness. I can feel it upon my skin, taste it upon my lips, and I know that these are the kelp vaults. The recesses run deep into the mountain, tens of them, stretching out as far as I can see in the dimness of torchlight and each of them is piled with seaweed. Fresh, it has not been here long, it has not yet made it to the drying racks, but I stop paying such close attention to it; it is seaweed.

I see a corner where chains have been hammered into the walls. I see blankets that have a smear of blood upon them. I see an uneaten plate of stale food and a cup that must have contained water. This is where they have kept him, and I feel a surge of rage that I push down into my chest, feel it burn and smoulder.

"Legolas!" I call out, and he turns.

He looks utterly dreadful. There is blood encrusted in his hair, down his face and onto his jerkin. His eyes burn like embers but his skin is as pale as the grave, florid with bruising along his jaw and cheek. He moves painfully, awkwardly, and I would feel a surge of pride at the fight he has very obviously given them, but there is no time for it. Legolas is fighting someone, and he is unarmed.

The man has a hood and a mask over the lower part of his face, and so all that I can see is his eyes. His skin is an odd copper colour; rich and golden. His eyes are almond-shaped and dark, as hard as diamond, but this is all that I can see. He is short, for a man, and slender, but to think of his smallness as weakness would be foolish indeed. He moves with grace, like a cat, as though it is the easiest thing in the world, and by Eru he is giving Legolas a run for his money.

Legolas fights as though he was born to it… even for an elf he is gifted. I have watched him fight a hundred times, a thousand perhaps, and each time I have been given pause to think.

His movements are natural, as though he does not even have to think about what he does. He predicts the movements of his opponents as though he can see everything around him without looking. He manages feats of agility with barely any effort at all, swift and nimble, and he does not need his blades to be a force to be reckoned with, but perhaps this time he does. He is very close to losing this battle, because this man? This man fights as well as he does.

I shrug my shoulder, bring his blades around and untie them. The others questioned why I had brought them along with me – lugged them this whole way when they are far larger to me than they are to him – but I am endlessly glad now that I did.

I fumble with the cords that tie them together, pulled too tight, cursing the whole of the time, but my gaze does not leave my friend. Legolas is hurt, I can see that he is hurt, but he fights as though he feels none of it. The man is armed with twin blades, he favours them just as my friend does, although they are shorter and the blades are narrower. Legolas is doing his best to fight him but he is starting to lose the battle.

The man is snake-quick and moves with grace and confidence. He counters every move, he is just as agile and just as fast, and the two of them are making me dizzy just watching them. For every attack that Legolas dodges there is another swift upon its heels, he must duck the sweep of blades as well as that of leg and fist but he is managing for now. The man lands a blow and then another and I can see that my friend is tiring. Finally I release the bonds on the blades at my feet, I call his name again. I throw them – one and then the other – and Legolas alters his course to intercept them.

He catches them, and he is armed, and then the fight continues in earnest.

The man brings down one blade and Legolas stops it with his own, the other sweeps toward his ribs and he spins, turning his body so that it passes harmlessly by but he has a foot in his spine and is kicked away. Legolas falls, rolls, recovers, and is back on his feet just in time to avoid being gutted, but is punched quite squarely in the jaw. He grabs the man's wrist, pulls him off centre, but the man counters it – turns his stagger into a fluid roll, grabs Legolas' wrist so that he is twisted off his feet as well. They hit the ground and the man elbows him in the sternum, and anyone else might be done then – gasping and wheezing for breath upon the dusty stone – but Legolas rolls free and crouches, his arm wrapped around his ribs, a guarded moment of recovery.

I have never seen him give ground like this, not once. I can feel him losing control, becoming angry, and where before his mind was cold and calm it is starting to reflect the madness in his heart. Legolas can only fight so well because he can balance the two; can keep his mind when his heart is nothing but turbulence, but he is beginning to lose the battle inside. He snarls, his face twisted like a cornered wolf.

He hangs his head low, bloodstained hair hiding his face, and through it I can see summer blue eyes burning ice cold. His mouth is twisted, his teeth bared, and I have seen him like this before… Eru I had hoped never to see it again, but I knew it could be like this. We both knew that this might happen, indeed I have been waiting for it.

Legolas' walls are too thin and too weak to retain his control. In battle he is at the very edge of it, all of the time, but now he is only a short step away from this madness. In my heart it feels like being swept away by a churning river, it is raw and flame bright and not particularly sane, and I hear Ren exhale softly as Legolas launches himself forward and attacks the man, because it is a thing to behold. A battle enraged _laegrim_ elf, uncontained and furious, faster and stronger and more reckless than usual. The fight begins anew.

Legolas throws himself at this mysterious _adan_ , and although he is losing control of his heart he has never once lost control of his movement. He is too experienced for it – each stance and move and counterattack is written into him like the pages of a book. He brings both blades down, too fast and too heavily for the man to do anything but catch them upon his own, and it leaves him vulnerable. He stumbles under the fury of it and Legolas kicks at him, aims for the gut and is ready when the man bends away from it, was expecting it, and takes advantage of the others' vulnerable position.

He sweeps his own blades down and to the right, dragging the shorter blades aside and putting the man off balance, yanks them backward and then slams the pommel into his face, kicks his feet from under him.

The man lands hard and Legolas kicks him nastily, a clip to the ribs and short and sharp stamp to the gut, but the man recovers, gagging and wheezing, and rolls free. He is to his feet in seconds, meets the arc of a silver blade and counters with the other. Legolas is too reckless when he is this way – too willing to let himself become hurt – and he pulls himself too close within the man's reach. Legolas grabs his jerkin and yanks him forward, close enough to crunch forehead into his nose, and the man staggers back in surprise. I am certain that mask he wears is now saturated in blood, and I feel a jolt of satisfaction.

I can see that the man is becoming angry as well now, and whereas his anger is cool and precise, Legolas has lost that ability with the passing of the winter. He is wild and frightening and dangerous, but he is also tired and hurt and this man is exceptional.

For a while it is all I can do to keep track of their movements. They are a whirl of blades, graceful and agile, and despite that he is losing his mind and is hurt I can tell that the elfling is making up for lost ground. The man is starting to take greater risks, starting to stumble, but out of the two of them he is in the best physical condition. Legolas attacks quickly – a speed that no man can match – but his opponent is ready for it. He dances to one side, is ready for the feint, takes advantage and manages to land a blow, this time with his blade. He slashes across Legolas' chest and I see redness spill free, see him falter and trip, and I hear a soft sound of dismay escape my own lips. I feel sick, and my heart does its very best to crawl out of my throat.

Eru, there is a very real chance that he is going to lose, and if Legolas cannot beat this man then I certainly cannot! I will not stand by and watch this. I go to move forward, I ready my axe and I take a step forth, but Larke grabs my arm and spins me around.

"Listen!" he urges, and I am surprised enough to do as he says.

The tunnels behind sound different, something is happening, and I have been so focussed upon the battle before me that I did not notice. The shouts are louder, the sound of battle continues despite that we are no longer up there. Our reinforcements have arrived!

I am not the only one to have noticed, that is for certain, because I turn back toward Legolas and the mysterious fighter has paused… his head tilted as though he listens.

He stays as he is, does not attack again, although I think perhaps he could win this fight right now; Legolas is gasping for breath with his hand pressed tightly to the blood seeping from his chest, and as I watch he drops to one knee. He is glaring furiously, his face fixed in a rictus of rage, and he looks terrible with that wildness in his eyes and blood all down his face. He is frightening to behold, but he is also hurt and weakened and I am so desperately afraid for him.

The shouting behind us becomes louder, closer. Whoever Mouse has managed to rouse has brought a lot of friends, and I know that we have taken the tunnels – that we are victorious. It is simply a matter of waiting, and I think the man realises this just as I do.

I can see when he makes his decision. He straightens, relaxes, sheathes one of his blades but holds the other up to his face in a salute… Eru he _bows_ to the elfling, and it is a promise, I know that it is. He sees Legolas as a worthy opponent, and he says nothing at all but I know that this is an oath – they will continue this again, some other time. It is not over. There has been no victor in this battle, but next time…

He ducks and races off into the tunnels, and I think perhaps there is another way out but I have stopped paying attention to him; there is nothing that I can do to stop him, and my mind is occupied with more important things for now.

Now that he is gone – silent, like a ghost – Legolas slumps, but although it hurts me almost physically to stop myself, I do not approach. I can see the way that his shoulders heave, the way his knuckles are white upon the hilt of his blades, and when Larke goes to move forward I grab the lad quickly.

"Stay away," Legolas growls, and Larke falters; it is cold, more a snarl than anything, and I keep my fingers dug deep into the Whitecloak's arm until I finally feel it… finally feel him bring himself under control. The softening of the wind after a storm has passed, birdsong after the rain.

I hurry to him then. I catch him before he can fall completely, and I grip his face in my hand – shake him just to be certain. He looks up and scowls, his face pale and bloody and awful.

"A moment, Gimli," he chides, barely a breath. "Give me a moment!"

Ren fumbles at his jerkin, exposes the wound to his chest, but it is nothing but blood and I cannot see the true damage. Legolas bats his hands away irritably, then bats mine away as well, and he cannot be too badly hurt if he is acting this way. I feel horrified, absolutely horrified, but I am also flooded with relief to find him alive, if not entirely well.

The softness of golden hair, the heat of his skin, the green and gold scent of the wood. Legolas… _ai_ Legolas – my dear Legolas is alive and well!

I can feel the warmth of his hands, the slamming of his heart beneath his ribs, the rise and fall of his chest. I can feel the burn of the Song in him – slowing now, coming under control – and he finally looks up at me. Summer blue eyes, angry and exhausted but they have lost that glint of madness.

"How long?" he asks, his voice hoarse and his breath snatched and ragged. "How long have I been gone?"

"A day and a night," I tell him, and I cannot help but rest my hand against the back of his head. I cannot help but touch him, even though I know that he detests such things and he nods. Short and sharp.

"The next time that you are taken," he gasps. "That is how long I will wait before I come to rescue you."

And I pause, I freeze completely, and for the love of my ancestors and all of their beards I have _no idea whatsoever_ why I bother with this awful, _awful_ creature!

I shove him, he topples over with a soft complaint, and I walk away to help with the aftermath of battle.

TBC

* * *

 **So those of you who know me will remember how much I HATE writing action scenes. This chapter has given me a lot of trouble; I have re-written it about a thousand times but I really need to just release it and let it go, because I don't think I've ever going to like it any better than I do right now. For the sake of balance - I really like the character development between Gimli, Larke and Ren in this chapter. I love writing those two... some of my favourite OCs next to Rowan and Callen; bit of an odd couple, but I'm becoming quite fond of them.**

 **Thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter, and to anyone who reviewed the oneshot as well... I know it felt a bit choppy but I started writing it a long time ago, so it didn't blend too seamlessly with my current style.**

 **You might be happy to know that I have broken through my writer's block FINALLY! I had to delete an entire 4,000 word chapter, which HURT, but apparently it was necessary. I'm back on track, if slowly, so huzzah!**

 **I shall stop warbling on now, and leave you to your evening or day, depending on what timezone you're in. I hope you have a great weekend :)**

 **MyselfOnly**


	10. Chapter 10

"You are certain that he is going to be well," I demand, and I know that I am scowling more lines and wrinkles into my face but I do not care. I am pacing a groove into Aragorn's nice floors, but again, I do not care.

We are back in our own rooms. Legolas is upon his bed – possibly the first time that he has used it – propped up against an impractical amount of pillows and swathed in bandages from rib to shoulder. He is as white as the sheets, his bruises stand out like thunderheads, and although I should feel worry and concern I feel nothing but anger.

"If he is going to die, simply tell me," I wave my hand toward Aragorn. "I do not care as much as you think I might."

"Gimli," Legolas breathes, exasperated, but it is soft and understanding and Eru save me, how can I continue to be angry with him? I have been so desperate to hear that tone, to see him and have him close to me, but this anger simply will not abate. "I am fine, _I will be fine!"_

"No," I bite out. I stalk close to him – perhaps too close. I jab my finger into my own temple. "I can hear you, in here," and then I jab it again in his chest, which is unkind. He curls slightly in pain from it. "And in here. You are not."

I mean to continue to be angry, I truly do, but I pick up one of his hands and he lets me. I curl my fingers – short and graceless and clumsy – around the torn flesh and livid bruising at his wrists. I feel his pulse, steady now and comforting, and I feel all of the fight drain away from me.

"Even after we found you," I try to explain, "even then… you were still lost for a time."

He blinks; he understands completely. For a moment I am back in the village of Burned Sycamore Standing, being forced to hurt him or else let him kill me. I had to break his hand to stop him; he had lost his mind then as well. This madness of his – that he dons and casts off like a jacket – it is a dangerous thing, and not just for him.

"I will be fine," he repeats, and it is as though it is just the two of us in the room. He is speaking only to me; a promise, an apology, a reassurance. He turns his hand, and now he is gripping my wrist as well. He smiles… that accursed smile that I have no defence against whatsoever. I snort in disgust and drop his hand, walk away, but I do not go far.

"I am not listening to you. I will listen to Aragorn."

"He will heal from this, Gimli," Aragorn jumps in, finding a break in our argument and leaping into it. "He has an injury to the head, his wrists are a mess, there is the wound to his chest but the rest is bruising. He is an elf; he will be fine in a matter of days."

"He is an elf who has just been all but beaten by a man," I point out. "When have you ever heard of such a thing? There is definitely something wrong with him."

"You think there is shame in defeat?" Legolas asks me, curious but with a hint of hurt that is far, far worse than any anger I had expected. "He was exceptional. I have fought elves with centuries of experience who did not fight as well as he did. You think of it as a failure? As something wrong with me?"

"No," I snap, and then I breathe. I am done with anger… I am being an idiot. An unkind one. I rake my hands through my hair but my fingers catch on knots and tangles, and I extricate them carefully. "But I have never seen you lose before, Legolas. And I have been worried."

"My friend," he smiles, and then laughs, and by Eru I could thump the lad. "I have been beaten a great many times in my life. I have had to learn, and it seems that this man was born to the blade. I will beat him the next time though, I am sure of it."

I look at him again – truly look – and I see the lines of pain and exhaustion in his face. Fair, he seems always so fair, and I hate it when he has his hair un-braided and loose about his face because he always looks so vulnerable. My Legolas is strong and powerful. This Legolas is beaten and hurt… naught but a young elfling, because in truth, that is all he is.

I sit on the edge of his bed, and he veers toward me with a wide eyed look of alarm until it settles. Aragorn's beds are too soft, I have always thought it, and it breaks the seriousness of the moment… for a heartbeat the two of us share a look and a soft laugh. I am abashed, suddenly ashamed of my outburst, and he looks at me carefully – intense… it is very intense to be looked at this way by an elf. His eyes bore into me, sharp and serious, and I know that he is simply reading me: ensuring that I am well, seeing that I am tired, and he frowns lightly at it. I reach out to pat his face gently.

 _I have been so very afraid for you._

And he smiles.

 _I knew you would come for me._

I hear Aragorn huff a sigh of annoyance and I feel shamed again, because he has been just as worried – possibly even more so – and here we are, talking in a way that he can never be a part of. We are excluding him again.

"I am sorry that I made you worry," the elfling says, and he sounds suddenly very unsure of himself. Aragorn has drugged him, I know that he has, and whatever walls Legolas has managed to rebuild these last months are weak and flimsy things. I deflate. I am extremely tired.

"You have nothing to be sorry for, my friend," I say softly. "Sleep for a while. You have still to tell us everything that happened, and there are things to catch up on when you wake, but they can wait a few hours." Because a few hours is all we have, I know it just as I know the beard on my own face.

These numbing herbs will not last for long, and once he wakes he will be trying to get up and leap around, waving his knives about just as he ever does. It is infuriating, absolutely enraging at times, but I have become accustomed to it. Elves are not like us, and Legolas is not a normal elf. I will give myself a nosebleed trying to fight him all of the time.

I pat at his hand once more, partly out of comfort but mostly in thanks for not arguing, and Aragorn – who has been strangely quiet this whole time – goes to his knees at the side of the bed. He bows his head, closes his eyes, and I can see all of the fear and worry that he has carried this last day and night. Legolas smiles, strokes the King's hair, but it is an oddly paternal gesture. I am often reminded of their history, of how Legolas had a hand in raising this man. It still sits strangely at times.

" _Ci vêr?"_ He asks softly, and when Legolas nods he frowns, sounds more like Gimli than Aragorn when he growls: " _Gwestol?_ " And Legolas laughs. I do not know why he is extracting promises of his wellness when he has just told me himself that the elfling is fine. I am starting to doubt Aragorn's healing abilities, or at least his honesty.

 _"_ _Gweston_ ," Legolas promises. _"Ni lôm, menin chaust nîn_ … let me sleep, go away!"

Aragorn laughs and rises, grips Legolas' shoulder gently as he passes. The elfling's voice stops us for a moment, he says:

 _"_ _Ci fêl,"_ and he sounds far too sincere for me to make fun of. "Both of you, my thanks."

And of course I become a little flustered, but Aragorn smiles warmly and nods his head in the faintest bow. It is enough, and Legolas rests his head back upon the pillow. By my very beard he might _actually_ sleep, and so I allow Aragorn to guide me out by my elbow and into my own rooms. He shuts the door behind him and I exhale as though I have not breathed properly in days.

"You should rest too, Gimli," Aragorn tells me, but I shake my head.

"It is not even afternoon Aragorn. I feel as though this day has lasted a lifetime but it has barely even begun – I caught some small rest last night, I will be fine."

"Then bathe, at least," Aragorn huffs through his nose. He is unwilling to fight me when he knows he cannot win, but unhappy about it either way. "Eat something, change your clothes, and meet me in the Conference Chambers."

"The Tower?" my eyebrows shoot into my hairline, surprise momentarily wiping all weariness aside. We never meet at the White Tower of Ecthelion. I think Aragorn still feels rather uncomfortable even _having_ a throne of his own, let alone using the building where it is housed. We usually use his rooms in the Citadel, because the top level of Minas Tirith is mostly underground just as we are now, and although the buildings on the surface are showy and magnificent they are not particularly practical. We remain here, or in his personal rooms in the King's House.

"The Tower is closer," he muses, his eyes resting on the door between us and the elfling, "and also… the Steward of the Second has requested an audience, unsurprisingly. I have called off the sacking of the second circle for now, I will meet with her just before dark.

"You would wait so long to see her?"

"I have few advisors, my friend," he tells me softly. "Few but my Queen, a sleeping elf and a dwarf. I would rather speak with you all before I see her, and so I must wait, but so must the Steward and I think perhaps it will be good for her. I would snatch an hour or two of sleep myself if I can; Hob has returned, and although he is rather cross with me, he has things in order for now."

I soften and relent, because I have many things racing through my mind. Did Mouse catch the oil seller? I am certain that they have been questioning the men captured in the vaults – what news might they have on Legolas' captor, and from where do they hail? Their purpose here? I will not get the answers I need, not yet. Aragorn has not slept, not stopped or rested; he has been too busy looking after us. The lad needs a few hours, and so far as I am aware, the Kingdom itself is not in jeopardy.

I settle into one of my chairs carefully. I have only been thinking of my own wellbeing… the elfling's. I am becoming far too accustomed to it being just the two of us, and I am surprised by my own selfishness. It is so ingrained in me now.

"There are a multitude of guards outside these doors," I say. "If you do not need me for a few hours, then I will spend them refreshing myself a little. Possibly tying the elfling to his bed with rope; you know he will not sleep for long."

I turn and frown at the door, and Aragorn laughs, just as he was meant to.

"A few hours, my friend," he nods, and I watch him leave. I have a thousand things burning through my mind, all racing with the speed of the wind and swirling like leaves upon it. I call for a bath to be brought in, I tell the man outside that if I spy a single rose petal he will be eating it, and then I settle down at my desk. I write it all down, pin it to parchment, tether each thought and question until my mind calms and then I clean myself up somewhat.

I change into something soft and clean, I eat, I receive a note from the Queen of Gondor telling me that her husband has finally fallen to sleep, and that I will allow him until three bells past noon at the very earliest or have her to answer to. I smile, crumple the note absently, and then I find myself anxious and unsettled and so I slip through the door between my room and Legolas'.

I fall asleep in a chair at the foot of his bed, carried into slumber by the softness of his breathing and by the echo of dreams of tree and leaf, and of rainfall in the summer.

I dream the dreams of an elf.

~{O}~

The afternoon sun is soft against the side of my face when I wake, and I can feel a cool breeze laden with the scent of new growth from Legolas' garden. The door is open of course, as are all of the windows, but I am warm despite it. For a moment I am unsure what has woken me – for a moment I am unsure where I am and what has happened – and for the briefest heartbeat I feel a flash of panic until my eyes settle on the elfling's bed.

He is sat upright, hunched over with his elbows upon his raised knees, his loose hair like a wash of gold across his shoulders and face. The blankets tent over his legs and his chest is bare, swaddled in bandages, but he is watching me with the clarity of a falcon regarding its prey. He has probably been watching me that way for a long time, unblinking and still, and I think perhaps it is this that has woken me. I mention it often, but it really is _terribly_ uncomfortable.

"You snore," he accuses, and I spend a moment simply trying to unstick my tongue from my mouth. I feel thick headed and stupid, and I am not entirely certain whether I am truly awake.

"You are just noticing this?" I mumble, and he pulls a quizzical face.

"It is not noticing, as much as _feeling_ ," he muses. "The floor quivers with it."

I snort, shuffle until I am upright again and not slumped like a sack of oats in my chair, and there are a whole host of muscles in my back and neck that begin to protest. I should stop sleeping in chairs.

"How do you feel?" I ask, and he rakes a hand through his hair… leaves it there, fingers carded through gold and resting upon the back of his head. He looks to the window, to the door, to the outside… to air and light and freedom. I feel a flicker of want, of need, quickly banished.

"Sore," he admits, rubbing his other hand across his chest and shoulder. It is a sign of how far we have come with one another; Legolas rarely admits to such things. "It will fade. I have come through worse."

With his eyes elsewhere I have a moment to look at him without his notice. I have seen Legolas without his shirt before, many times indeed, and so there is no surprise in what I see. Legolas' skin is covered in a faint tracery of scars, silver and faded with age, but there are a lot of them and some are quite awful. He has told me the tales of a few, but he is terribly secretive about his past. He does not like to speak of it.

"What happened?" I ask carefully, and it is just the two of us. I will get an answer right now, without any fight and in complete honesty. He sighs, lifts one shoulder and lets it drop.

"He was better than me," he admits. "The others called him Oren, and he never spoke whilst I was there, not once. He took me whilst I visited the oil sellers, caught me by surprise…I recall nothing except waking in darkness, with the Song gone quiet and the smell of the sea thick in the air. They kept asking why I was here in Minas Tirith, what my relationship is with the King, why I was working with the constabulary. I said nothing, nothing at all, and they were quite angry about it."

I eye the bruises at his ribs, his face, and I can imagine just how angry they became. It is written upon his skin. I feel a surge of anger then and it is mine, it is not the elfling's; he feels nothing at all, or he does not feel it strongly enough that I can catch any of it. Legolas turns to me finally, meets my eyes and sees the last glimmer of my anger before I can hide it.

"He was there all of the time when they questioned me," he says softly. "Stood in the shadows, utterly silent, but they were all afraid of him; I could smell it on them. He is a dangerous man, Gimli."

He frees his hair, lets it fall across his face unfettered, and I know that it is an intentional thing; it hides his face for a moment. Even so, I see a glimmer there of something that I could feel even if I could not see it.

Legolas has been captured, chained to a wall, held in darkness in the depth of the mountain for a day and a night. He has been hurt, beaten… his injuries are not simply to his flesh. What he has endured has hurt his fëa more than his body, and I know my elfling... I know him so well by now. He can feel the echoes of it in his heart, bathed in light and with the wind stirring his hair.

To chain a wood elf in a vault of stone – it is the cruellest of things.

"When was the last bell?" I ask, clearing my throat and sitting up abruptly. He tells me, and I rub the last of the sleep from my face. "We have an hour until Arwen will let us see Aragorn, but I will give a bit more time for fear of her shearing my beard in my sleep. If you are well enough then let us take a walk; I will tell you all that happened whilst you were gone, and you must tell me all that happened to you as well."

He blinks at me, tilts his head as though he is a bird. I have changed the subject very quickly, it has not gone unnoticed, but one of the benefits of befriending an elf is that they take sudden subject changes quite well. They do it all of the time – it is extremely unsettling – but it is useful some of the time.

"You are not going to tell me that I must lie abed?" he asks. "That I must rest? I have been preparing our argument for an hour… you could at least hear it."

"You think me daft," I snort, and he pulls a grudging face of agreement. "I can be slow to learn sometimes Legolas, but eventually I come to all things. There is no point arguing with you if you believe yourself well enough to return to duty, none at all. I will only grey my hair in the trying."

He beams, and for a moment my heart lightens and soars. It is a guileless smile, young and pleased and completely unguarded; a rare thing.

"You must write to my father," he tells me. "And Almárean, Ionwë, Idhren and Faelwen and everyone that I know; I have been trying to explain this to them for a very long time. Perhaps dwarves are not as dense as they seem."

"I am an exceptional dwarf," I tell him, "or an uncommonly stupid one, I am yet to decide. I will fetch us some food – you are going nowhere until you have eaten – but you should get dressed at least. I grow uncomfortable with that flimsy frame of yours on show, you should have some modesty."

He throws one of his pillows at me, I catch it and I laugh as I leave him to his ministrations. I go in search of some food, and if I am smiling whilst I do it then I make no effort to stop myself.

~{O}~

It takes a while to get him ready for the world, because he feels vulnerable and exposed and so I allow him his time. Time to braid his hair, time to dress in his warrior's garb and arm himself, time to remove his bandages from both chest and wrists, although we have quite a sprightly argument over it. He says that his wounds are knitted; that the bandages will make little difference now, and simply make him feel trapped and bound.

I say that if Aragorn put them on, Aragorn should be the one to decide when they come off, but although I can quite definitely hear that I am speaking, Legolas acts as though I am not. I let him do as he pleases; if his lungs fall out of his chest and his hands drop off then I shall do nothing but laugh at him, and when I tell him this he ignores me again, so I give up.

I pay absolutely no attention whatsoever to the scar on his chest, the one where a blade skewered him right through this winter past. I do not hear the sound of battle around me, and I do not feel or taste the spray of the Anduin upon my skin. I do not notice it at all. I leave him alone, return to my rooms, and if it takes a while for my hands to stop shaking then I pay no attention to that either.

It has started to drizzle outside; a fine mist that clings to hair and clothes like jewels. It is grey, the wind is stilled, and we walk atop a mountain beneath a sky swollen with unshed rain. It smells sharp and clean, fresh, and Legolas breathes it in deeply. Tilts his head to the cool wetness and lets it dampen his face.

"I will look like a hedge by the time we arrive," I mutter to myself, smoothing the rain into my beard so that my hand comes away slick with water. I wipe it upon my leg. Legolas snorts a laugh, but neither of us press any urgency into our pace; we have some time, I am happy to walk about the grounds if this is what Legolas needs, and I twitch my hood over my head. The problem with beards, though, is that they tend to stick out somewhat. I can actually see its gradual increase in volume.

We have passed the entrance to the White Tower twice so far, and each time I have looked upon those beautiful white doors with longing but we have carried on past them. I am willing to allow Legolas his time; I know that he needs some space just as I know that he needs my company.

We pause on our second circuit of the Tower, and we do not necessarily hide but neither do we move from our concealment. We remain hidden in the confines of a stand of flowering magnolia trees; pink and white and bare-branched. We watch the convoy of the Steward of the Second as they enter the Tower, staid and dignified and silent.

There is a man at the fore, I do not recognise him, but he is nothing – nothing to be concerned about. Briar has dressed him as a lord in pomp and finery, and I can see her at the rear dressed as a handmaiden. I can also see her guards – those two tall women with black hair – trailing behind her, guiding a stooped and old man wrapped in cloak and hood. They are fully covered against the rain, but I recognise that confident and powerful walk no matter how they are dressed.

"I do not understand," Legolas breathes. "I do not understand why she must hide who she is; a man in her stead."

"Some _edain_ see difference in man and woman," I explain, because I understand a little better. "A woman tends house and raises children, and does not fight or command men."

Legolas snorts, disgusted.

"Éowyn would have a thing to say about that," he mutters.

"And the elves who are Noldorin think you Silvans quite mad," I point out. "Think how few kinds of elf there are… think how many kinds of men and how different, and then imagine how the dwarves view you all."

His face melts into a smile, open and amused. He watches the convoy as they are received into the tower until they are gone, then suggests that I go in without him; dry off whilst he walks some air back into his lungs. I bark out a laugh that echoes around the stone courtyard. As if I would leave him alone right now!

He rolls his eyes, and we make another circuit around the building. I tell him of everything that has happened whilst he was gone, what little there is of it, and Legolas is suitably horrified that Aragorn was ready to tear down a part of his own city. I tell him that it was a ruse, a way to draw out the Steward, but I think that Legolas can hear a hint of doubt in my voice because I certainly can.

He tells me then of a day and a night in the dark, far beneath the city. Angry men with cruel hands, questions that never ended, and a hidden man who stood in the dark and said nothing at all. He gives little embellishment, he speaks facts and keeps matters short and to the point, but I can feel it in him… the way that he is struggling to shuck free of what has happened. It ghosts upon the edge of him, a rawness that was not there before, but Legolas has endured far worse. He needs only time and air and a free sky above him.

He is silent then. I do not fill it with my prattling but rather with my company, and once he is ready we turn toward the Tower of Ecthelion. It rises tall and wide and huge, a knife blade into the greyness, dizzying and mighty, and I honestly do not know why men must waste stone this way. It is as though they learned how to build things upward, and then decided that this was quite sufficient and they need learn nothing else.

I shake my head, we enter the tower, and we go to find the King.

TBC

* * *

 **Blimey, that was terribly fluffy.**

 **Not a lot happened, I realise this, but I think the lads deserved a bonding moment. There's also one thing I wanted to address, and this is the way I use elvish in my fics. I try not to get too heavy handed with it, but I know I also use whole sentences and do not translate them - I actually try to translate as I go. By Gimli's reception, his observations, and sometimes by the elves repeating what they said in a more recognisable tongue. I know some people find this jarring (sorry, Vanimalion) but Legolas is not speaking his first tongue, and I have mentioned that he tends to slip sometimes. I like to show this occasionally, and I write it the way that it feels natural to. I apologise if this pulls anyone out of the story, or if it is irksome in any way.**

 **Bit late in posting tonight as I had an unexpected visitor to entertain, but this should be received by Cheekybeak in time for her birthday. Happy Birthday my dear - Three Hunters fluff is my promised gift to you! Thanks for all of your support.**

 **Please drop a review - they've been a bit thin on the ground recently so it'd be really nice to hear from a few more people. It really does mean the world.**

 **Have a great weekend :)**

 **MyselfOnly xxx**


	11. Chapter 11

We meet before anyone else arrives, in an antechamber that is rather small and that has Legolas all agitated again. I have just got rather wet smoothing all of the edges out of him, but it cannot be helped; Aragorn needs to hear his tale before we meet with the others, and it is not the sort of thing that the elfling needs an audience for.

He reports quickly and efficiently, facts and details, like a soldier reporting to his captain. I recognise that he is removing himself from what has happened – distancing Legolas from the elf that was taken – and I take this as an encouraging thing. It is the sort of thing that an elf with properly functioning walls is able to do, and is something that has been lacking for a while, but even so he is tense and twitchy when he is done.

Aragorn is sympathetic; cups his hand gently to the side of the elfling's face, and gives him a look of fondness and understanding.

He tells us that Hob and his men have ben questioning those that were taken captive in the vaults, although no sign has been found of the cloaked man that Legolas fought. The prisoners remain silent, he says, despite their best efforts – they are proud and hard men, but Hob thinks perhaps it is fear that stays their tongues rather than loyalty. Fear can be broken, loyalty cannot.

He says that he is sorry, and he means it, and then he promises that efforts will continue. They will find who took him, he swears it, and Legolas nods although his jaw is tight and the lines of his body rigid as a bowstring.

We have a bit of time, Aragorn tells us, and then leaves, and apparently this means something to the elfling because we leave as well, although we do not follow the King.

Legolas takes me to a balcony, slender and narrow, and I do not think that I could see it from the ground. It opens out onto all of Gondor without a single thing to break the view. The rain is easing; the sky directly above is still dark and shadowed, but the sky to the east is washed a pale blue as the sun sets. I can see stars there, diamond cut and clear, and I think that I will come here on a clear day so that I can appreciate this properly.

I am dragged by my sleeve to the edge of the balcony, and Legolas and I stand with our elbows folded upon the wet stone, our shoulders touching. The courtyard below is lit by torches, and for just a second I am tempted to drop something over the edge, because I was a boy once.

We stand and simply look, and we do not speak; it is a moment for quiet and respect. The White Tree stands beneath us like a ghost in the coming dark, and it sings clearly even to someone like me. I feel small, brief; unimportant but involved in things of such importance. I stand in a city of Kings, I am a part of a history that will one day be told, and suddenly all of the terrible things that have happened in my days upon Arda seem small and brief as well.

As soon as there are no guards paying attention, I drop a pebble from the side of the balcony.

~{O}~

We do not meet in the Throne Room, because that really is too much, but there are smaller conference chambers just above it and they are grand enough. The ceilings are high and vaulted, and there is an impractically high backed chair for the King that sits as a focus for the room.

Everything else orbits around this chair: the long and narrow table that cuts through the middle of the chamber, the ten other – significantly smaller – chairs scattered around it. There is a tree whitewashed onto the wall directly behind him; a faded ghost, huge and beautiful… all of it is set to highlight Aragorn as the centre of the room.

We cannot help but sit at council. We cannot help but look up to him, and we cannot help but be cowed by where we are. I am hit by the weight of such history and past greatness, of the sheer significance of where we are. If I can feel it even when I parade around with an elf – who makes even a trip to the bakery a lesson in how endless he is, and how brief and ridiculous I am – then it must be quite disconcerting to the others.

Aragorn has invited Captain Hob of course, and he looks wildly uncomfortable. He sits there with Ren and Larke, scowling to hide his discomfiture, and although he is trying his hardest to look dignified and stoic the other two are staring around themselves as though they have found themselves in Mandos' own chambers.

Aragorn has made a bit of an effort tonight, and I can understand why, but in my head there is a strange separation between my Aragorn and the man who is King. When I saw him last he was tired and worried and vulnerable, the man that I know, and now he is distant and noble and strangely unreadable.

He sits in a doublet of darkest blue, hair tamed if not tame, with a slender sword at his hip and those pale grey eyes of his cutting into each of us like a blade. He does not wear the crown of Gondor, thankfully, but a circlet sits upon his brow; reminding us all that he has one to wear if he wished to, and that we do not.

Legolas is un-cowed by such things – he is far too used to them – but for once he does not stride into the room and flop into a chair, making some glib remark to ruin Aragorn's efforts. Instead he enters proudly, and stands just behind Aragorn: pale and hungry and with those terrible, _terrible_ eyes of his watching us all. I follow his lead, I stand on the other side, and I do not know how I appear but I try my hardest to be the dwarf that my father would want me to be. That Aragorn might be proud to know.

I plant my axe upon the floor, a heavy thud that makes Ren flinch, and I rest my hands upon its haft.

We fall into silence, and if it is uncomfortable then I think this is what Aragorn has intended. All eyes are upon him, and he sits easily in his chair as though he is untouched by the tension. His gaze settles on Captain Hob, who meets it steadily.

"You are aggrieved," he says quietly, so that we must listen if we are to hear, and after a while Hob nods. Aragorn makes a slight gesture of his hand, graceful and small, and gives Hob leave to speak freely.

"Would you truly have sacked the second circle?" the captain asks boldly, because I do not think that he is capable of anything but boldness. I can see Aragorn consider his response, and in the end he nods.

"If negotiations fail," he says, "if things continue as they are, and nothing can be resolved, then I will take steps. But this morning I said those things only so that you would go to the Steward."

"You think me a spy, my King?" he replies tightly, affronted but in control of himself for now. "A snake that would slither back into the grass with your words upon his tongue, ready for any ear that might listen?"

"No," Aragorn shakes his head, dousing Hob's outrage instantly. "I think you loyal. And I think that you have had enough of bloodshed. And I think that you do not know me well. Not yet."

His tone is calm and understanding, his words honest, and they have the effect of placating the captain, although I can tell that he is unsure how. Hob looks mollified but puzzled, and sits back in his chair. Our ranger is getting rather good at this.

Aragorn tilts his head in Legolas' direction, barely turning, and Legolas steps forward. The King mutters into his ear, and I hear the briefest snatches of fluid Sindarin before the elfling nods once, stalks off across the room and points to three guards. He gestures for them to follow, they do so despite that he has no authority to command them, and he slips from the door. I am curious but I keep my peace; I am not left waiting for long.

Edgar is the first to be brought into the room, and he looks far better than last I saw him. He is washed and clothed and fed, and although he still has the look of a hunted man, he looks less likely to drop dead any time soon. He has only a moment to falter at the sight of his King, of the people gathered in this room, but then Sig is led in through another door and the boy races to him with a sob and a cry.

Edgar drops to his knees, receives the child as though he is his own. Sig is weeping – the broken hearted tears of the young – and I think Edgar might be as well, and then Moss bowls them both over because he thinks he should also be involved. His tail whips furiously, he is far too big and heavy to sit in anyone's lap, but it does not stop him from trying and they are soon in a tangle. I think that it is the first time I have heard either Edgar or Sig laugh.

We give them a moment, and despite that he has only one working arm, when Edgar stands he is holding Sig to his hip. I think that they will be fine. I think that they are the only family that either of them has now.

Once the pair are settled the door opens again, and this time it is the convoy of the Steward. It is the fancy and ridiculously dressed man – Briar's decoy – as well as the Steward herself, her guards and, strangely, the hooded old man. The rest are left outside. The old man is deposited quickly into a chair by the silent women, but my attention is more closely upon the man dressed like a peacock.

"You!" I accuse, unable to keep my silence. My face is thunderous, I can feel it, and my hands tense upon my axe.

The man beams, twirls, shows off his gaudy attire. It is Shutter… this preposterous fop is the assassin who would have cut my throat the first time we met.

"Ah, Master Durin!" he beams. His auburn hair is combed and held by some kind of pomade, and he wears greens and reds that clash horribly. He sweeps his cloak back. "Do you approve? I think I look rather fine!"

"You look ridiculous," I snarl. "Is it _Lord_ Shutter now?"

I would continue, I think Shutter would as well, but Aragorn flicks one hand at me and I clamp my mouth shut. I am being rude; it is Aragorn's place to speak in such company, and so I keep my silence although I feel the beginnings of indigestion. Shutter winks at me, and it is only a sudden surge of emotion from Legolas that stops me from launching myself from beside Aragorn. He bids me calmness and patience, and it is the irony more than anything that keeps me still.

Shutter bows deeply to his King, unnecessarily florid, and he shuffles back until the Steward of the Second stands at the foot of the table. She stands alone, proud, and she shucks off her hood and pushes her cloak back from her shoulders. Her dark hair is waved from the dampness, she wears boots and leggings and a simple shirt of richest blue. She seems just as she did the night that I met her; the very image of womanhood: power and strength, beauty and cleverness, and she stands before a King as though she is an equal. She is an absolute marvel, and I risk a glance at Legolas out of the corner of my eye. He does not meet it, but he sees my glance, and I almost laugh at the dancing across his jaw as he clenches his teeth.

"My King," she bows, and she sounds quite genuine. Her voice is rich and soft, and it could be an act – this could all be an act – but she genuinely sounds humbled. She said that she was loyal to the King, and I start to think that perhaps it was truth.

"Lady Briar," Aragorn nods. "I had given up all hope that we might meet."

"I was under some duress, my Lord," she says, and there is a hint of reprimand in her tone but only a hint. She softens it with a smile; not coy or flirtatious, but rather I think she sees the entertainment of it. It is a game.

"An unfortunate thing," Aragorn says carefully, "but had you accepted my hospitality before, then I might not have had to resort to such measures."

"I had hoped that you would never have learned of me," she bows again. "I perform a service to you, and nothing else. One day there will be no need of a Steward on the second."

"I think that day is a while off yet," the King admits. "And I also think that is why we are here. You bring me a gift – is it what I imagine it is?"

She smiles again, and this time it is broad and real. She is impressed… pleased.

"It is," she says happily, but then her attention is diverted. She looks at the elfling, stood still and cool at the side of the King, and she approaches him although it is possibly a bit forward of her. She examines his face – bruised and damaged – and he meets her gaze impassively as she examines the hurt done to him.

"A shame," she breathes, and reaches out as though to touch him but she does not. She sighs instead, smiles again, but this time it is only for Legolas. "Still beautiful, though."

She turns and gestures toward her guards, and they pick up the old man by his elbows and bring him closer. It is a rough way to treat an old man, but once they drag the cloak free and discard it upon the floor I realise why; it is not an old man at all, instead it is a young man who is bound and tied and gagged. His eyes are wide and frightened, and he looks around him as though these are the last moments of his life.

"Lirra and Liana found him," she tells us, and finally the two guards have names. I can see them better this time; they are definitely sisters. "I understand you could not find the man who bought the distilled oils… we found him trying to leave the city. Everyone must pass through the Second."

Lirra – the taller and more angular of the two – grabs a chair and drags it into a free space closer to the King. Liana drops him quite unceremoniously into it and rips his gag free, and Aragorn looks to Hob who stands, approaches. He looms over the man, who is small and slight and afraid. He has narrow eyes and a thin face, and I hear Edgar stifle a gasp.

"He was there, my King!" He cries, and he sounds frightened, unsure; not entirely certain that he should be speaking at all. "He was there when they burned my house!"

The man's eyes dance around us all, taking in his audience, and his fear does not abate. He should not be so frightened of us.

"I did not know!" he cries out, and his voice is harsh and coarse from being gagged. He holds his hands up in appeal, bound together so that it looks like a prayer. "They paid me! My King…. My lords, masters all of you, you must believe me! I had no idea what was happening, I tried to leave as soon as I realised!"

"Realised what?" Hob asks coolly. "You can go ahead and assume that you are under arrest. What you tell us now might make things go better for you."

"I cannot!" the man cries.

"Your name?" Hob enquires calmly, and it throws our captive. Completely throws him, enough so that he stutters out:

"Miro, my lord," and Hob nods.

"Miro," he tests out. "You live in this city?"

"Aye, my lord," he nods. He is starting to calm just a little. "I live on the third with my sister and her sons; she lost her husband in the war. I am a carter, and she is a seamstress, and we make enough living for my nephews. They will be respectable men, once they are grown."

"And this was a job, like any other?"

"I received a petition," he nods enthusiastically, relieved that he is being heard. I am starting to pity the man. "I was to go to an oil seller and find a distillation, pay in gold and deliver it upon the second. That is all I know, I swear it!"

"Indeed," Hob muses. "That is all?"

Miro nods, fast and urgent, begging that we believe him.

"Swear it upon the lives of your nephews," Hob tells him, and the man falters. He opens his mouth but nothing comes out, his eyes widen again and he cannot do it… he cannot. His face drops, and I hear Legolas hiss in annoyance. His impatience and irritation have been scratching at the edge of my mind, a moth at a lamp, but he is so often irritated or impatient that I have grown to ignore it. Perhaps I should revise my stance on such things, because it seems the events of the last few days have set him back in his recovery quite considerably.

Legolas leaves his position at Aragorn's side, he strides across the stone floor, and as he moves he draws one of his blades. Larke stands to stop him but the elfling moves past, slips by as though the lad is nothing but an inconvenience. His face is blank and frozen, anger blazing in those awful eyes… not the kind and happy eyes that I know. He is not my friend when he is this way, he is a complete stranger, and when he reaches Miro he draws back his blade, readies himself to strike. It is only Aragorn's voice cutting through the air that stops him.

" _Daro!"_ he snaps out, and Legolas falters, flinches. It is not shame or realisation, but rather the flinch of a dog that has been yanked by its chain. His arm is pulled back but he pauses – bares his teeth, snarling, and his eyes dance to the side toward Aragorn. He recognises the voice, knows that he should heed it, but I think he is struggling to recall why.

Miro, by now, is sobbing. He has a furious – and slightly mad – elven warrior with a blade pointed directly at his heart, and only the tenuous control of his King holding the blow at bay. He starts to cry, and any pity that I felt before doubles and triples until I resolve to kick the elfling the next time we are alone, quite solidly in the shins.

"I do not think that he believes you," Hob shrugs, gesturing negligently toward the elfling and seemingly quite relaxed despite this show of aggression. "And we have no time for liars."

"They wish to take over," Miro weeps, and he is a bit of a mess by now. Legolas has the full force of that awful glare pinning the poor man into his chair, the threat of his blade upon his heart, and I am surprised that he has not ruined Aragorn's nice upholstery. "I heard them talking. Men do not often pay much mind to me, so they spoke as I was not there. They said: _"once all is done and we hold the second circle…"_ and I heard no more, and they said nothing else on it… I swear, I _swear_ on my sister and nephews, and my dear departed parents, and my cat and everything that I have… I swear it. Please, _please_ my lords… I am needed, they _need_ me. I simply answered a summons!"

Miro folds then into a mess of self-pity and fear, sobbing into himself, and I know that we will get nothing more from him. Hob reaches out and lays his hand upon Legolas' shoulder, and it is a heartening sign that the elfling lowers his blade rather than slapping his hand away, or perhaps impaling him, which is also a possibility. He straightens, sheathes his blade… returns to his station as though nothing has happened. Aragorn gives him a withering glare, then turns to Ren who seems quite alarmed by what has just happened, and then similarly startled to realise he is under his King's regard.

"Take him away," he instructs kindly. "Feed him, clean him up some – we might have more questions for him later, but send word to his family; let them know where he is."

Miro halts his tears enough to say his thanks, falling over himself and stuttering, a flood of relief and gratitude that is rather difficult to hear. Liana and Ren lead him from the room, and once he is gone I turn to the elfling.

"Would you like to kick the dog as well?" I offer mildly, and his lip curls for a moment into a snarl but I ignore it. People might find him frightening, but I am not afraid of him. Not now the danger is over, in any case… I am not a complete idiot.

"That is interesting," Briar muses, and she seems unconcerned by the spectacle of a murderous elf not feet away from her, but certainly troubled by the carter's words. She finds herself a chair and settles into it, sits proud and gathered, but her face betrays what her posture does not.

"Have you heard the name 'Oren' before, my lady?" Hob asks out of curiosity, and Briar looks blank, shakes her head.

"Do you make income from being the Steward?" I ask. I glance at the elfling, pull at our link to make certain he is unlikely to attack anyone else, and then I join the others. I leave Legolas guarding Aragorn, and I take a seat at the table. "If you would excuse my rudeness, I would hear it if you would tell it."

"A lot," she admits, and she shrugs. "I will deny nothing. I charge a percentage for my services, but I keep very little of it; it has better use elsewhere and money makes me uncomfortable. My father was the Steward before me, and he said that people can only take away that which you have."

"But a man who kept that income would be a rich one indeed," I press. She nods, and again her eyes have drifted. She is deep in thought.

"It is more than that, though. There are things…" she begins, "things I have started to do; practises I have tried to weed out. We no longer have any hidden caches of armaments, I have ousted most of those who sell poppy extract, although they are proving stubborn. There is no need for an Assassin's Guild, no cause for it any longer, but it made much gold in its best years. If I was replaced, and if my successor had only gold in his heart, he could un-do much and do a lot of harm. It could be… lucrative."

"And the effect on the rest of the city?" Hob asks faintly. I am surprised to hear a glimmer of weariness in his tone. She looks up, blinks, and for a moment her face is clear and without any pretence. She looks worried.

"It would be bad," she admits. "My family have kept things… _contained_ , kept it quiet until your return, my King, but it is a tenuous balance and hard to keep. If the Stewardship was taken by someone with no love for this city, the darkness on the second would spread like ink upon water. Minas Tirith is not sufficiently healed to defend against such a thing – not from being poisoned from within. I would give it five years before the darkness spreads, and the remaining circles become much as the second is right now."

TBC

* * *

 **So, very quick a/n here.**

 **I have been gone for FAR longer than I had intended. I tried to post on time - I truly did - but I had problems with the site. Firstly it wouldn't let me upload the chapter at all, then I could upload it but I couldn't amend it. Then I got busy. December was always going to be a busy month, but I had always meant to post three chapters before Christmas. This is partly because they are sort of the same chapter broken up - this is all one scene, and they go as a triptych - but also because I have a New Year hiatus every year. I didn't want to have a hiatus directly after a hiatus, therefore basically vanishing for a few months.**

 **So the site is now letting me upload again, and I thought: 'self, you always intended upon posting three chapters before Christmas. There is literally no reason why you cannot do this.'**

 **So I have.**


	12. Chapter 12

"A part of me wishes I was still as I was," Aragorn sighs. "It was certainly easier when I could solve most of my problems with a sword."

We have adjourned to a small antechamber for a moment, and my poor friend is slumped in his chair as though all of his bones have simply melted. It is just Legolas and I, although he straightens as Hob slips into the room.

The captain glances at Legolas, who somehow manages to fit an entire exchange into the look he gives the _edain_ … a question and a query all in one glance, easily interpreted. He asks if they have found out anything from the prisoners captured in the vault, and captain Hob shakes his head with an apologetic look.

"This is far more of politics than I have ever been comfortable with," Aragorn grouses, not missing the exchange but choosing not to comment on it. "I should have brought Arwen."

"I will fetch her," Legolas goes to leave, but I grab his sleeve and yank him back. Hob's eyebrows rise into his hairline – he must consider me terribly brave – and the elf gives me a very steady look that recommends I release him.

"You will stay here," I tell him quite certainly. "Where there is far less chance of you stabbing anyone."

His look changes to one that disagrees – quite completely – with my belief, but I am _mostly_ sure that he is not going to draw his blades on me. Aragorn clears his throat pointedly.

"The Queen need not be here," he ends that particular matter. "I will speak with her later. I would hear her wisdom, but I have no intention of involving her with assassins, thieves and arsonists if I have any choice in it. Hob, are they settled?"

"We have cleared the room, my King," he nods. "The Lady Briar has retained that implausibly named fellow in the odd clothes – Shutter, is it? The rest guard the chambers, although I doubt the need for so many out there. Edgar, Sig and the dog have been taken to the Lowers and will remain somewhere safe, Miro is on his way to the Rookery, refreshments for our guests will be with us shortly."

He was right behind us when we left, he followed only moments behind, I have no idea how he has organised all of this.

"What is your take on these matters?" Aragorn asks the captain, who seems surprised and then pleased to have been asked. He leans back against the wall, folds his arms but it is an easy posture – comfortable with the company he keeps.

"In truth, my Lord, I am not that surprised," he admits. Aragorn waits, gestures for him to continue. "I have seen such things, although not at such a scale. War changes things, stirs them up, and when all has settled there are opportunities that were not there before. It is not just Kings who rise and fall."

"And you think the Lady vulnerable? Can she hold the second?"

"Not alone," he shakes his head. "She is strong and fair, but her brother was meant to take the Stewardship. He was trained for it from the start, and she never wanted it, she was not schooled on how to hold it – not forever. If she must fight, then it is only because she cares for the people under her stewardship."

"And would they fight for her in turn?"

"Oh yes, my King," he says quite certainly. "The income that she does not keep? She uses it to pay their taxes. She buys all of the leftover bread she can at the end of each day and gives it freely. She pays three women – clerks from the fourth – to come and teach the children letters once a week. She is loved."

"Of course she is!" Aragorn huffs, throwing his hands up, and I think he is forgetting himself; it is not just Legolas and I in the room. Legolas stirs, gives our friend a look that chastises him, and Aragorn has the sense to look a trifle abashed at his outburst. Then stops himself and straightens.

"No, Legolas, do not look at me that way," he scowls. "I have been King a few years, you have been… _you_ for thousands of them. Why are you scaring carters into tears?"

Legolas blinks, gives him a look that reads plainly:

 _You know why._

"It certainly moved things along," Hob offers helpfully. Legolas locks eyes with Aragorn, tilts his head in the _edain's_ direction with a gesture that suggests he speaks sense. Aragorn is having none of it.

"You will control yourself Legolas, or you cannot be here," Aragorn says, and this time he is sincere and firm and a King rather than a friend. Legolas has a father who is also his King, and so he is used to relationships that are tangled and confusing. He does not argue or snort or pull a face, which is a graceful acknowledgement of fault – for him, in any case. I reach out quietly and I listen to him, listen to his heart for just a moment, but I pull back almost instantly.

Mahal, he is a twisted mass of self-recrimination, and there is not a trace of it on his face. Bless his pointy ears he is furious with himself!

"You are seeing this all wrong, Estel," Legolas speaks finally. His voice is soft, calm, a far cry from the storm that I felt earlier and the shame I feel from him now. I nod, unable to stop myself, and the elfling looks at me.

I know that we are thinking the same thing, as we so often do these days, and Legolas holds my gaze for a while. I do not know why entirely, but for some reason it relieves the tension in him; calms him so that he is more himself again. He pulls strength from me, I realise suddenly, and I am humbled by it – silenced by the weight of such a thing. He has always been the stronger one out of the two of us.

Legolas pulls himself up to sit upon a window ledge, high and narrow, but he makes it look easy and comfortable. Hunched in a window – ignoring chairs as he so often does – he looks like my elfling once more.

"It does not have to be the Steward of the Second or King Elessar; it can be Briar and Aragorn. You have said before that you have few people to share confidences with, and I have said that you need to review your council."

Aragorn looks thoughtful, as though each word has settled in his heart, and I allow a moment for such thoughts to take root before I speak.

"She has resources, my friend," I tell him softly. "And you are rather clever, for a man. I think that the two of you can come up with a way of dealing with this Oren fellow, and after that? Who knows…?"

Aragorn spends a while longer in thought, his eyes distant and shadowed and focussed on a particularly uninteresting patch of hearthstone. He rubs his chin, and then his focus shatters and then draws together again. He nods to himself and stands, looks to the three of us with thanks but says nothing.

He leads us back into the conference chambers, and we follow without a word.

~{O}~

"This," the Lady Briar waves her hand toward a scroll of parchment that Aragorn has passed to her. "This is all a trifle unexpected."

Aragorn sits back, comfortable and at ease, or so he seems. Hob stands at his shoulder and I sit at his other side, and Legolas is a ghost in the shaded places where the light does not quite reach. He leans against a wall, and if his colouring was not so fair I likely could not see him at all.

"It is a start," Aragorn tells her, "but it has stipulations. We will have time to finalise things on another day."

Briar picks up the scroll again, it whispers dryly against her hands and she scans through what he has written. There is a pinch at her brow, she looks quite lovely when she bites her lip that way, but I understand her concerns; it is a generous offer, but one that changes matters a great deal. She passes the scroll to Shutter, who has barely said a word since the chambers were emptied. He is dressed like yuletide, but he still manages to seem dangerous and serious when he wishes to be. He reads in silence, and Briar frowns faintly at her King.

"This is generous," she says honestly.

"It is not," he shakes his head. "It is fair."

I think perhaps I am witnessing something of historical importance, but I am not entirely sure. For a moment I wish that I was still linked as closely with the elfling as I once was, because there was a time when we could speak without words as clear as normal conversation. Instead I can feel him slipping away from me like water in my hands. He is in the same room as I am but he feels far away, remote, like spotting a hawk in the sky.

I ignore the sinking feeling in my gut – guilt, remorse, grief for how he once was – and I focus.

Aragorn has pledged to build a schoolhouse, to remove the city engineers from all other projects until the drainage is fixed and the streets completely cleared. To hold an amnesty for those in hiding to confess their crimes. He will forgive debts up to a figure that has yet to be agreed, and provide employment for those who wish to work off the remainder. He will build another two Magister's offices on the second and will start a sponsorship for journeyman willing to set up their trade on that circle.

It is generous. It is very generous indeed. But for this to happen, the Lady Briar must agree to have all criminal activities upon the second circle ceased within two years, or have the agreement annulled. It is a huge commitment.

"Should I sign it in blood?" she asks coolly, a twitch of her head, and Aragorn shakes his.

"You need not sign anything at all right now," he tells her. "This is a proposal, nothing more, and we will discuss it more thoroughly when we both have time. This is my intent, this is how I see our future, but first we must secure it."

There is a tap at the door and a whisper slides into the room; discreet and silent, but I see him: it is Master Gowry, the gaunt and upright old man who runs this household. He slides into the room upon a shadow and brings with him food and elegant cups of spun glass. There are salvers of cooked meat and cheese and bread, fancily displayed, and also fruit spilling from a bowl. He arranges it all nicely, fastidiously, with napkins and a pitcher of cold water.

He straightens, sniffs, dusts a few crumbs away, regards his efforts with a nod of satisfaction. He tells us that the wine will be with us shortly, and that he is outside, poised and ready to spring into action should we need anything, although he does not say it quite that way.

He catches sight of Legolas as he leaves, and if it was becoming of him to bare his teeth and hiss then I think he would, but somehow he manages to leave without breaking his stride.

"What guarantees do we have that you will stick to your word?" Shutter asks, helping himself to an apple and biting into it with a sharp crack. He makes direct eye contact with his King, brushes juice from his chin and sniffs. "You could be simply saying these things. We risk much by dismantling a tradition of lawful… flexibility."

"I guarantee nothing. I need not," Aragorn tells him. It is flat and serious and he is not going to explain himself to a man like Shutter. He stares at him without blinking, and he has learned much from the elves because it is unpleasant indeed; like a blade from the forge: hot and keen. "If you dislike my offer then you will be more respectful when you decline it, and I will make my own arrangements for the second circle. You will dislike that far more."

Briar glares at Shutter, annoyed and disappointed, and the slippery young thief looks suitably chastened. He sits more upright, removes that insouciant slouch from his bearing, and returns his focus to the parchment. There is the slightest part of me that curls and stretches happily at his reprimand, like a very smug cat, but I manage to harden my face so that it does not show.

Conversation is stilted again as another one of the serving staff enters with our wine, but I do not think I would have noticed at all if it were not for Legolas. As the lad fusses at the table I watch as the elfling pushes away from the wall, movement in the gloom that he is hiding within, and he circles around the edge of the room on silent feet.

I watch for a moment, curious but unconcerned, because I have seen him move this way before but for a moment I cannot place it. I frown as I watch him, idle and perfectly relaxed, but the moment I realise what I am seeing my heart slams against my ribcage with a burst of panic.

Legolas holds his head low, eyes focussed, and his movements are measured, careful. He curls around us in the darkness, moves to cut us all off from the door… Eru he is _stalking_ , an animal behaviour, and my mouth goes dry but I also feel a flicker of anger. It is certainly not the first time I have seen such a thing from a _laegrim_ elf but this madness of his is starting to wear _extremely_ thin. I had thought him far better improved than this!

I do not react quickly enough, and although Aragorn has spotted the same thing he is not quick enough either. Neither of us are fast enough to stop Legolas, especially when he is this way, and I am annoyed that I did not notice, did not realise the signs of danger. I feel a surge of irritation; I feel it twitch and take hold and grow, and suddenly I find myself quite angry.

Legolas speeds up, his last few steps fast and silent, and he grabs the serving boy just as Aragorn cries out and I leap to my feet.

"Legolas no!" Aragorn snaps, but he does not stop him this time. Legolas yanks the lad, who cries out in fear as he is hauled off his feet and slammed to the wall with a huff and a crack as his head meets stone. He reels, dazedly, and there is a lot happening all at once then.

Shutter and Briar are to their feet as well, the thief stood in front of his lady although I am sure that she can handle herself just fine on her own. Aragorn shouts at Legolas again, just as I do, but my anger has taken a full hold of me now. I know that he does not act this way on purpose… I know that he is broken, that he hates this lack of control over his own mind, but it is starting to get very, very tiresome.

I feel anger, swift and hot, and this time when I shout his name I do not simply use my voice, I _yank_ at him with my mind as well.

Legolas is not the only one who carried the Shadow; I carried a part of her as well, although it was not the same. She connected us – although at first she did not mean to – but there is still a small part of me, deep inside, where I remember what it is like to know anger and rage the way that she knew it. There is barely anything left of it, a memory of a time I wish I could forget, but it seems as though it is not as faded or gone as I had thought.

I feel anger at the elfling. Anger at all of this guilt I carry simply because I wished to save his life. Anger at how careful I must be all of the time, and how he is losing his mind this way… he is _dangerous_ , for Eru's sake! If any other creature were running around Minas Tirith, half mad and thoroughly armed, we would not be allowing it, but because it is Legolas it is excused and forgotten.

I do not know what I am doing, not really and not consciously, but I reach out to him and I send him pain.

I reach into his mind and I twist it savagely, and Legolas cries out. He drops the lad, curling over and gripping his head. He sends me a seething glare, furious and cold, and I do it again because I know that if I do not he will attack me as well.

"Legolas let him go!" I bellow at him, striding across the stone. "Release him or I will put you down!"

I prove that I can by doing it a third time, and I am starting to lose my strength but I cannot stop now that I have started. It is hurting him, aye, but just as a kicked dog will bite, Legolas is insensible and furious and I must bring him completely out of this. I must keep on until his mind has cleared.

This is a hard thing to do. My rage has receded like a wave upon the shore and instead it leaves only horror – not just because I am hurting the elfling, but because I have done this thing at all! There is so little left of our link now; it is like trying to drag a blanket through a keyhole with just my thoughts, and now that the fire of my anger has faded and gone, I am left trying to stop him from turning those blades upon me instead.

By now the elfling is on his knees, his head clutched between fisted hands, but when I release him and approach he is different – clear again. His heart feels like an inferno, singeing me as I get too close, but this is better. He glares at me again, bares his teeth and snarls, and I reach to him but he bats my hand away savagely. There is blood seeping from his nose, staining his teeth, and he wipes at it angrily and then points toward the serving lad, crumpled on the floor and blinking.

"He _smells_ like him," he hisses, and I feel my eyes widen in surprise; I know exactly what he means.

I leave the elfling to compose himself, because I must do the same. There is a very long conversation that we must now have – because he must be utterly furious with me and I am utterly horrified – but it is private. I am not sure that he would hear me right now anyway, and I must focus upon what we do right now because I do not have the words.

I nudge the lad with my boot – although I could have been a bit kinder about it – and I feel rather than see when Aragorn joins us.

 _"_ _What did you do?"_ he demands, a hiss only for me to hear, and I shake my head quickly. My hands are shaking, every muscle and sinew in me is shaking, but this is not for now.

"He smelled the assassin upon him," I explain, unsure whether he has heard. By now, Shutter has fetched guards from outside of the room, one of whom is Larke and the other Liana, and the two of them drag the serving lad to his feet. They drop him into a chair but hold him there by his shoulders, and by the time he is able to focus on what is happening around him, someone has fetched Master Gowry as well. The old man looks scandalised.

"My King!" he complains with a horrified look at the kitchen boy. He glares at Legolas, who has stalked away to the table and is inspecting the wine. "You must speak with your guests, this is not to be borne!"

"How well do you know this boy?" Aragorn asks mildly, and Gowry straightens even further although I had not believed it possible.

"I know all of the household, my Lord," he says, as though his ability to perform his own role has been questioned. "This is Teg, his mother worked with me for twenty years, although we lost her last winter. He has worked in the kitchens since he was old enough to fetch and carry: he has two sisters, both younger, and is fooling around with one of the scullery maids, although they think I do not know. This is his first year serving in the Kings House, and he will soon be…"

"You have made your point," Aragorn stops him. Teg looks wide-eyed, frightened, casting furtive glances toward the perceived safety of Master Gowry but also fearful ones toward us. He is young, not yet in his twenties if I had to guess, and he does not look like someone who would conspire with assassins.

"You believe what the elf says?" Shutter asks me, but he has the guile to say it quietly to me. I am thankful for it. Legolas hears of course, but no one else does, and I cast my gaze backward to where the elfling has frozen into stillness. He is sniffing the wine, strangely, but I know that he is also listening.

I think for a moment. Legolas has lost his mind again… briefly, but it still happened. Twice today.

"Absolutely," I reply with a nod. My animosity with this ridiculous thief is forgotten for a moment, and I catch his gaze so that he understands that I am being completely honest. "I believe him utterly."

No matter what is happening in Legolas' head, he is still Legolas. He perceives the world quite differently than I do: can see and hear and smell a world that is closed off to the rest of us, and in this I trust him completely. Ever will I trust him over my own perceptions of the world. He could have handled it better, but that changes nothing.

Shutter returns to the Lady Briar, and the two of them stand closely. They talk between themselves, they shut us out, but I pay only the faintest attention to it.

"You know who I am," Aragorn says to the lad, young Teg, and his voice is soft and kind but there is an undercurrent of iron. The lad nods quickly, and Aragorn nods as well. "You have any experience with elves?"

Teg's attention flickers toward Legolas, there and then back, and he swallows.

"Your coronation, my King," he answers, and his voice is feather soft and pleasant and afraid. "I served fresh bread, and also roast boar with blackberry, and then later glasses of damson wine. They were kind; one of them spoke to me and thanked me, although they were strange. They were… beautiful, and they asked if I wished to try the food. No one has asked me that before."

He stops, his breath hitches, and by Eru he begins to cry.

Legolas returns before I can sprint away from yet another weeping _edain_ boy, and he skirts around me just a hair's breadth more than he usually would. It stings more than it should.

Legolas hands the boy the cup of wine that he has been inspecting. He stands before him – tall and straight and proud, nothing even slightly like the feral and violent monster he has been – and regards him coolly.

"Drink this," he says, and I glance at Aragorn who gives me a look that tells me to allow it. Teg blinks, surprised, scuffs his tears away with his sleeve and takes the cup. He looks at Master Gowry for permission, and the old man shrugs and so he tilts it to his lips to drink.

Legolas snatches it away before he can.

 _"_ _My King!"_ Gowry cries, because this really is becoming too much.

"Poisoned," Legolas tells us all shortly, the cup held up for us all to see. Teg blanches, his eyes widen in dismay as realisation sinks in. He cries in horror:

"I did not know!"

"How are you certain?" Gowry demands.

Shutter holds his hand out and takes the cup when Legolas passes it to him, sniffs it, although it does him no good. When he looks at Legolas it is oddly trusting; he has no doubt in what the elfling has said. He might be annoying but apparently he is not a complete idiot.

"Unless you have the nose of an elf, you will simply have to believe me," Legolas says to Master Gowry, who certainly does _not_ look as though he believes him. Legolas narrows his eyes. "Although, should you wish to prove me wrong..."

He gestures toward the cup that Shutter still has in his hand, and the thief holds it out obligingly. The elderly man takes a step back before he can stop himself, presses his lips together so tightly I can see them whiten, but his face turns deathly serious.

"This boy is innocent," he says, and he is so sure of what he is saying that I think a part of me believes him, even without proof. He turns his gaze to Aragorn. "My King I am certain of it, and I am responsible for him."

He leaves much unsaid, but Aragorn understands his meaning without it being spoken. My friend is tight lipped himself, his face drawn and pale, but it is anger that I see in him rather than worry. He is furious at what is happening here in his city, to his guests. He takes a moment though, sensible as he is, and when he nods there is a lot spoken there. Master Gowry does not move until then – does not even twitch a finger – but once permission is given he moves in front of the serving lad, who is shaking and grey but to his credit he is not weeping any longer.

"Boy," he says, and although the old man sounds stern and serious it is a familiar tone of voice. I think he has called him 'boy' his whole life. "You understand the seriousness of this. You have brought poisoned wine to the King of Gondor… our King, who we have waited for. You realise that this is the most serious treason."

"Sir," Teg replies, and his tone is soft and urgent and imploring, but it is as though we are not here at all. He has decided to speak only to Master Gowry, to shut us out, because this is all too much for him. I pity him, I truly do.

"Sir, I would not do this – _please_ say that you believe me. This is my home, I have nothing else and I am happy here. I was not even supposed to be serving tonight; the stable master said that I could ride one of the good horses tomorrow morning if I helped clean the tack tonight. Tanner could not be found for his duties this evening and so…" he trails off, makes a weak gesture with his hands as though to say _'here I am'_. He looks utterly miserable.

"This Tanner fellow," Hob finally speaks up. "He is usually considered reliable?"

"He is not well liked, but he is hard working and I do not recall him missing work before. He has been here all evening up until now."

"Your tunic," Shutter looks straight at the boy, lifts his chin to prompt a confirmation but he has already worked it out for himself.

"It is his, my Lord – Tanner's. Mine is still drying." His breath hitches, and he finishes off in a soft and forlorn voice: "I was not meant to be working tonight."

It is the tunic that Legolas has smelled, not the lad himself. It is this Tanner fellow who has had dealings with the mysterious Oren, Tanner who was meant to bring this wine and so it is Tanner who we need to speak with.

"I will fetch him, sir," Larke speaks up, looking straight to his captain who nods in agreement.

"Take one of Lady Briar's guards, if she is agreeable; I would have Ren remain here."

I consider Hob's request, think I might be interested in it, and I turn to check on whether Legolas wishes to join… _for the love of Manwë where has he got to now?!_

The dratted creature has floated away again, I have not even noticed him go, and I have not been as casual in my alarm as I think I meant to be. Aragorn notices and shifts his head to his right, and so I follow it to see Legolas speaking with Shutter, of all people. The two have both drifted away from us like vapour, they seem in deep counsel, and I am ready to interrupt but then Legolas breaks away and walks back to us. He strides – confident and focussed and with some purpose in mind – and he has brought with him the stoppered decanter of wine.

"I have something I would like to confirm," he tells Aragorn. "This poison – it is one of three kinds, and two are rare indeed. I cannot tell them apart by smell alone, but I can find out easily enough. It might tell us where these men hail from at the very least."

"Or simply who they traded with once," Aragorn frowns lightly. "Or that they can buy things. The last time you went off on an investigation you were captured."

"Which makes it extremely unlikely to happen again," Legolas sighs. "And Gimli will be with me."

"Where do you intend to go?" I ask carefully, because that is quite a surprise to Gimli. I am secretly pleased, extremely thankful that he would still have me near him, but then I narrow my eyes at him. He has a habit of dragging me into dangerous endeavours, but he simply lifts and drops one shoulder.

"Our rooms," he says.

The garden – his garden. It is the closest place where things grow, and all manner of things sprout and blossom and bloom in there. If anyone would know herbcraft enough to tell one poison from another it would be a _laegrim_ elf; I have never known anywhere so tended toward poisonous things than Mirkwood. It is not such a long journey, and I am emboldened by Legolas' willingness to take me with him. I think perhaps forgiveness for what I have done to him tonight is far easier for him than it is for me. I look eagerly toward Aragorn, and I think that our combined efforts are more than he can stand.

"I will give you two passes of the bell," he scowls.

"It may take longer than…"

" _Two passes of the bell_ , Legolas. And then I will send everyone that I can find to come and fetch you."

Legolas rolls his eyes but he accepts, which is quite graceful so far as the elfling is concerned, and it seems as though everyone has been waiting for our negotiations to conclude. Captain Hob fetches two other guards from outside, and they will take Teg into custody the same as they have taken Miro the unfortunate carter. We are going to start running out of space.

Master Gowry informs us that he will be accompanying the boy, who looks so grateful it pulls at something in my chest, and I can hear the Lady Briar telling Hob that Liana will accompany Larke in their search for the elusive server Tanner. I am not particularly happy with both Legolas and I leaving Aragorn's side right now, but he has Captain Hob with him, and once the doors are opened I realise exactly how many guards are out there. I relax a shade.

We all start to move, we have things to do, and the elfling is setting quite a pace out of the room so I must hurry to catch up. I would have liked to have a final word with Aragorn, I would have liked to speak with Hob for a moment, but I have mentioned before that it is not a good idea to let an elf get a head start. I meant it then, and his legs have grown no shorter nor mine any longer, so I must remain close upon his heels or fall behind.

We leave chaos behind us and fall into silent corridors, darker and colder, but I think perhaps I prefer this. It is always just the two of us, it has been for a long time now, and I fall into step next to him quite naturally.

If I am a bit more prone to startling at shadows than I was at the beginning of this week, then the elfling does not say anything.

TBC


	13. Chapter 13

"We have things to discuss," I tell Legolas as we leave the Tower.

He looks distracted and ruffled, his face cut sharp in the moonlight now that the rains have passed. He does not look at me, but I see a muscle in his jaw jump when I speak so I know that he has heard. We are walking at a fair clip, exposed as we head away from the White Tower, but I do not think that the open and dark terraces are what has him so tense. He does not reply.

 _"_ _Legolas!"_

"I know that we do," he bites out, a twitch of a frown there at his brow. "Do you not think other things more important right now?"

"Can you solve this mystery between here and our rooms?" I demand. "No, you cannot, so we have spare time and no other ears around. You owe this to me Legolas."

It is my last words that stop him in his tracks, because I am ashamed to say that they came out more plaintive than I had intended. He stops, sharp and abrupt, and for a moment we stand alone in a courtyard so dark I can barely see him. The grasses are sodden, water drips and taps through new leaves, and blossom petals float atop a puddle that I am standing in. I shift my boot, watch the ripples run across its surface, and I force myself to stop staring at my feet.

I am once again quite angry at him, angry at myself… angry _because_ I am angry. Why should it worry me so much that Legolas might be cross or annoyed with me? It never worried me before, never gave me this sick feeling in my gut or distracted me this way. Legolas knows all of this, he _knows_ it, and I owe him so much – more than I can ever make up for – but in this I deserve a _damned conversation_.

I can see his hands clenching and flexing. I cannot see his face, but I can see the tension in him only to see it drain away in an instant.

"I know that I do," he replies, and it is only because I am listening so hard that I hear him at all. "I am not cross with you Gimli."

"How can you not be cross?!" I demand, my hands lifting and dropping to my sides uselessly. "I have never done that before – I did not know that I _could_ do that. I was so angry with you yet you deserved none of it, and it is the second time now that I have used our connection to hurt you…"

I run out of words, because this is the heart of it. This is why I ache, this is why I am angry, because it is not anger at all but rather that I do not know how to feel all of the things in my heart, not all at once. Eru… I did it again! On the banks of the Anduin I used our connection to break down the walls within him, to break the very heart of him and crush it to dust. I could not ever imagine doing such a thing again... to hold such a position of trust and to betray it, not once but now twice?

"It is not the same," he says urgently. He steps forward so that moonlight falls across his face… so I can see him. He is putting a lot of work into his expression; open and sincere and with that unblinking eye contact, because he means for me to _see_. He means for me to hear his words, means for me to recognise the sincerity in them, and he reaches out and grips my shoulder painfully.

"It is not, Gimli, not the same at all. As surprising as your methods were, you did only what was needed. If I had hurt someone, hurt that boy… by the stars I think I am _glad_ that you have this over me – I would have you do it again next time! It is much to ask of you, I always ask far too much… I deserve every part of your anger, and I am sorry."

"I do not mean for you to be _sorry_ ," I mutter, suddenly very embarrassed, but the relief is huge and leaves me feeling vulnerable. It is only Legolas who is permitted to see me this way, and even so it is not a pleasant feeling. "Have I hurt you?"

"Aye," he laughs, and I frown, because I am not certain that laughter is appropriate. "It hurt, Gimli, but it was effective. I cannot… I cannot stop it, when my mind goes… when I cannot recall…"

He stops, because he is desperately fighting to find the words and cannot. Not many people realise it, but Legolas does not speak Westron all that well. It is a problem that a lot of the elves of Mirkwood share, or at least the younger ones amongst them. Faelwen can barely manage a whole conversation without lapsing into her own tongue, but Legolas was tutored and manages most days. Even so, this is beyond his grasp, and I watch him floundering for a while before he gives in.

When Legolas loses his way, when he becomes that savage and dangerous creature that I have seen far too frequently these days, he cannot stop it from happening. It is as though his mind has reverted to a younger version of him: a _laegrim_ elf from the wildest part of the wood, mad with war. He has told me, I have seen it for myself when our link was stronger, and he need not explain. We have had this conversation a hundred times. Perhaps this newfound ability is not the worst thing; he has recovered quickly from what I have done, but if he were to hurt someone when he has lost himself… I do not think he would recover from that.

"You did the right thing," he tells me finally, firmly, a scowl stealing across his forehead. "I am sorry that I keep losing myself, and I am sorry for what you had to do. You have nothing to make amends for."

I have much to make amends for.

"Right," I nod, and I am no longer embarrassed but this moment feels more awkward than it should. I rub one hand down my pant leg, then realise that we are wasting a lot more time than I had meant to. I imagined that we could have this conversation whilst walking, I clear my throat, and grant him an abashed smile. "I cannot say I am happy about it, but that is resolved for now."

It is not resolved at all, but it is as much as either one of us can manage. This is another thing to add to all of the half discussed matters that swirl and hang between us, but despite that we owe it to one another to resolve things, it is more than either one of us are willing to discuss further tonight. I consider for a moment that I am lucky indeed to have a friend so willing to set this aside for later conversation, that elves find such things acceptable, because this particular elf is friends with a dwarf. We are not very good at this sort of thing.

I reach out and tug at his sleeve, and we walk again.

"I know that Aragorn will wish to speak to you though my friend. He has not seen you that way before."

"He has," Legolas disagrees. "It is not a new problem, not for any of us. We learn to block it out, to shut it away, but our walls do not protect us all of the time and I have been in battle with Estel more times than I can count. You are right though; I think he is angry, and I do not know what to say to him."

"He holds you to a far higher standard than any other." I hold a door open for him and we descend into a staircase, where our voices echo oddly with the shifting sound of our boots. Well… my boots. "It is perhaps unfair."

"Not unfair, because I am quite troublesome recently, but it is terribly mannish," Legolas sighs. "I was his teacher and protector, but then he grew, and realised that I am not quite as magnificent as I once seemed. Apparently it is my fault that I am faulted… although I am still rather magnificent, we should all accept that."

I laugh and he grins, all traces of bad feeling washed away, and it is good to be with him when he is being his old self again. It is confusing, unsettling, more frustrating than anything I have ever experienced – to live and travel and converse with someone who changes their mood this frequently… it is difficult, but it is also refreshing, and a little bit exciting. It is certainly nice to know someone who does not carry a poor mood for days and days. With Legolas, you can sometimes pull him out of it by pointing out an irregularly shaped cloud.

We enter his room. It smells familiar and green – it feels like returning home – and for a moment I am overcome by weariness.

"You should take something for yourself whilst we are here," I inform him. Someone has lit the fire, but although Legolas simply strides right in I am forced to fumble around for candles before I can see where I am going. "I know that you are hurting by now."

I hear him grunt as he makes his way toward the garden, hear the thud of the wine decanter as he deposits it on his desk, and I take this as affirmation. I also take it as a request for more pain numbing tea, and also a thanks, because if I must interpret his snorts and huffs and stubborn silences, then I shall interpret them however I wish. I will also grant him manners whilst I am at it. I hook a kettle of water over the fire and then stand awkwardly, at a bit of a loss.

"Do you need any assistance?" I call.

"Can you name a single plant in here that can be used to identify poison, or even how to use it?" he calls back. I open my mouth and then close it again, scowl.

"Declining with thanks would have been sufficient."

"Pour some of that wine out," he asks, emerging from the deepness of his grotto. He carries a sprig of something leafy and the white root of something else, and there is a smudge of soil on his face. He uses the heel of his hand to pulp the leaves, and then a spare arrow head that he finds in a pocket to trim down the roots… sees me looking at him strangely and tilts his head in question.

"There is a trunk under your bed full of the old healing master's tools," I point out. "You are curious enough to have found it, but if you like I can take off my boot so you can use that as a mortar."

"We carry few tools when we are on patrol," he laughs. "I have become accustomed to doing it this way. And your boot has been on your foot; it would wilt the leaves and probably my hand. Is the water ready?"

"That is for your medicine," I frown, and he waves something brown and desiccated and unpleasant looking at me before popping it into his mouth and starting to chew. It is willow bark.

He points to a bowl he has set out. I fill it obligingly and he drops the crushed leaves and roots into it, reclining and taking a deep breath, releasing it. He stretches back and cards his hands through his hair, chewing the pain numbing willow bark all of the time. He looks tired, but I have seen him come through immeasurably worse situations than this. I am not worried about him. Not at all.

I hear the tolling of the bell in the far distance from the open door, brought to us on a breeze that smells fresh and clean. We have used half of our time already.

"You are tired," I observe, sitting whilst we wait for the infusion to seep. It smells acrid, sharp but not entirely unpleasant. He grunts again, and I see his hand rise to rub at his chest absently.

"It has been a long day, Gimli."

Eru, we only found him this morning. It is hard to remember sometimes that he is not invulnerable, because he always seems to be well – always hides his discomfiture and weariness, always fights through it, because that is all he knows how to be. It is easy to forget, but this morning I found him in a tunnel after being bound and beaten and separated from the Song for a full day and night. Suddenly his lapses into madness do not seem so inexcusable, in fact I am surprised he has kept himself together as well as he has.

He seems to hear or sense or feel the path that my thoughts move toward, and his face turns unhappy and dark for a moment. He digs at the wood of the table with a thumbnail, an awkward thing, and I know where his mind lies. He is replaying it, over and over again… his loss of control: twice in one evening, three times today if count his battle with Oren.

It is easy to think that it does not concern him, because he is so used to covering such things up with those masks of his, but right now it is just the two of us. Right now his mask slips, and he looks miserable, but then he remembers himself – wipes it clean as though it was never there. I wish he did not feel as though he has to do that all of the time.

He turns toward me and smiles, soft and genuine, warm… reaches out and rests his hand on my arm for a moment.

"But you were there," he says simply, and I can see the evidence of fresh blood beneath his bracers.

I am saved from having to think up a suitable response, which is well because _damn_ him he could at least have these poignant moments when I am ready for them. Apparently the leaves and roots are done, and he pokes at them, sniffs, finds it satisfactory and then pours a small measure into the cup containing the poisoned wine.

Immediately the smell changes: sweet and cloying, coating the back of my throat, overpowering everything else in the room. Legolas sets the cup back down and looks quite disturbed, props his elbow on the arm of the chair and his chin upon his hand. He scowls at the fragrant cup of wine as though willing it to be somehow different.

" _Aher_ ," he murmurs under his breath, but that tells me nothing at all. He rubs his chin, scuffs his hand across his face as though trying to wake himself and straightens perceptibly, clears his throat. "I spoke to Shutter before we left," he tells me. "He said that there is a retired assassin on the second that might help."

I pause, long enough for the silence to be obvious, hanging between us like a physical weight.

"I do not want you to go visiting old assassins on the second circle," I tell him honestly.

"I do not wish to visit them either," he admits. "Captain Hob or Shutter can deal with it."

There is further silence for a while, we are wasting time that we do not have, but I think now that we have stopped for a moment we are both finding it difficult to start back up again.

"Do you think that we are cursed in some way?" Legolas asks curiously. "I had thought the previous hardships of my life were just an unfortunate accident of my birth, but things have not become any easier since this new Age began."

I think on it, think on how best to respond, because there is a worrying weariness in his tone. I know that Legolas is hearing the Sea Longing; perhaps not right now, but his journey home started a long time ago with the cry of the gulls. He has endured so much, but I think perhaps he is finally starting to become weary in his heart.

"You complain too much," I tell him in the end, making a decision. He makes a vague gesture with his hand, wiping away his words, then heaves himself to his feet. It is not graceful or fluid or easy, and I see the weight of every single one of his years in that movement.

"Let us go," he prompts. "I do not trust that Aragorn can stop himself from sending people after us, even when we have time to spare."

~{O}~

Things seem to have calmed a bit when we return to the Conference Chambers. We are allowed access easily enough, but I think perhaps the crowd of guards has actually grown since we left.

We slip through the doors, we try to be unobtrusive in our entrance, but of course Aragorn notices and I see a slight relaxing of his features as he sees us return. His shoulders seem to lift, the tension about his mouth fades, and he watches Legolas very closely for a moment but sees nothing that concerns him.

It is just Aragorn, Briar and Shutter in the room. Hob is with his men outside, Larke and Liana are not yet back, and it seems that the three of them have been discussing their pact, or treaty, or whatever it is. The original parchment is terribly defaced with corrections and amendments, the table is littered with sheets where they have started anew, and I think that they have been arguing because one of them has been torn into shreds.

Shutter cranes his head around as we join them, twisting it to keep the elfling in his eye-line until Legolas finally looks at him. I take a seat beside Aragorn but Legolas remains upright, fidgety and distracted.

"It is Aher," he says to the thief, and Shutter frowns slightly.

"You are certain?" he asks, and it is not doubt but rather confirmation. Legolas nods and Shutter sighs, and I start to wonder why they are both reacting in such a way. The elfling did not seem so pleased about it either.

"It is deadly," Shutter says, as though reading my thoughts. "A nasty poison, quite cruel and not used very often; a professional assassin would think it quite distasteful. It is also frightfully difficult to make. It takes a man of skill and experience to make anything other than an unpleasant tea, but the ingredients are as common as dirt. I will speak to our retired friend, see if there are any of his old colleagues still selling such things, but I do not think that this will help us."

"Ask him," Aragorn confirms. "He may have been approached, he may not, but it would help if he had. Take a copy of that drawing that Edgar made as well, he is busy duplicating his work and should have a few spares by now. See if he recognises the faces."

"What of you, my Lady?" Shutter turns to Briar, suddenly unsure of leaving. She smiles at him warmly, lays one hand upon his arm.

"Our King has graciously offered rooms for what is left of the night; I have no wish to travel back down through the city at this hour, and with so much uncertainty. Lirra is with me, and almost all of the City Guard, and you know that I can defend myself, my friend."

"Well aware," he replies with a sudden grin, which is far friendlier than any I have seen on him before. I am quite distraught to find that I no longer hate him as much as I did, and I grieve the loss of it.

"You go alone?" I ask, forcing boredom into my tone, because I mean him to know that I do not care either way.

"Of course," he frowns, insulted. He straightens, snorts, and walks away muttering to himself as though I have offended him greatly. He continues it even after he has left the room, and Briar is smiling after him fondly but then she also stands. Smooths her clothing and takes a deep breath.

"Unless you have further need of me, my King, it has been an eventful evening and I would retire for a few hours."

"Of course, my Lady," Aragorn stands, and he gives a small bow. "My apologies for keeping you up so late, and also for the attempt on our lives. It has not happened in a while."

She laughs, rich and warm, and bows back to him.

"No apology necessary my King; I have had more entertainment tonight than I have had in a long while. Is the Prince to show me to my rooms?"

Legolas – bless his pointy ears – almost stumbles where he paces the floor. He gives Aragorn a wild look but it is not returned. The King's face is frozen in a rictus of a smile, the falseness of it only apparent to those who know him.

"Alas," he replies smoothly. "Prince Legolas and I have a few things to discuss before we retire tonight. Captain Hob's men will escort you and your people to your rooms."

Legolas grimaces, but he schools his face into something neutral when the Lady Briar winks at him. She is far too dignified to embarrass herself with this fixation she has on my friend, but she is not hiding her intentions either. I think she is simply enjoying herself far too much. I can tell Legolas has no idea what to do with this woman or how to treat her, and if I must be completely honest, I am starting to find it quite amusing as well.

"I will walk you out, my Lady," I tell her, and offer her my arm.

I can feel the elfling's glare burning into the back of my head as I leave, but I catch a single glance of Aragorn's face and he seems grateful. I know that Legolas and I are rarely apart these days, but in this I would be intruding

I shut the doors quietly behind me, receive a warm kiss on the cheek from the Lady Briar, and watch her leave in a crowd of her own people and the City Guard. It feels as though the temperature drops significantly when she is gone, and I drop tiredly in a chair next to Captain Hob. We bracket the doors like sentries, and after a night of so many people coming and going it seems silent and quiet out here now. We are mostly alone.

Hob is slouched against the wall, his arms folded and his legs sprawled out before him. He looks at me with a question, rolling his head across the wall.

"That," I wave my hand vaguely behind me, "I am not needed for. But he is not walking back without me either, not in the mood he is likely to be in."

Hob simply grunts, offers me a flask of something that smells potent enough to burn my nostril hairs clean out of my nose, but I decline. He tells me that I am sensible, tucks the flask away again without drinking either, and we lapse into silence but it is comfortable. This hallway is utterly quiet, dimly lit since it is so late, and it feels as though it is just Hob and I in the entire mountain.

"Who do you suppose the wine was for?" he asks me, shifting slightly into a more comfortable position. I do as he has done – I slouch back against the wall – and I fight to keep my eyes open.

"It did seem clumsy," I agree, mumbling through my beard. "Our assassin was either terrible at his job, or something went wrong. Poisoning wine meant for a number of people when it was intended for one…"

"Too risky," he agrees. "Far too much to go awry. I spoke to Master Gowry as we were taking Teg downstairs. Tanner was meant to actually serve the wine – to pour it into each of the glasses. When I closed the Chambers off, I informed the serving staff that it was simply to be brought in, and that we would pour our own. That is when Tanner disappeared."

"You think he took fright?" I ask, and he shrugs with a mouth tugged downward, flits one hand briefly before settling it back under his armpit.

"Perhaps, perhaps not. We will know once we find him."

I make a noise of agreement, but in all honesty I am too tired to sit here guessing at what might have happened. It seems an awful lot of energy to expend on something so fruitless, and so instead we simply sit in quiet. I have grown to enjoy Hob's company – it is easy and natural – and I hope that he thinks the same of me.

There is so much unanswered, so little that we can do about it, and although I say that speculation and guesswork is fruitless, it does not seem to stop my mind from chasing ideas and possibilities.

I sit and I wait, and I weather my own storm.

~{O}~

We are in Legolas' garden.

I have filled his room with candles but have brought none out here with me, because it really is a bit of a fire risk. The light spills honey-warm into our wooded glen, enough for me to see by, and Legolas and I sit shoulder to shoulder against the wall. Sitting this way the elfling's legs stretch out before him, long and elegant and crossed at the ankle, but mine stick out like a child's. I cannot help but roll my feet, knocking my boots together, but after a while Legolas reaches out and grabs my leg in a serious suggestion that I stop it. I consider carrying on just to be ornery, but I do not.

He has undressed until he wears only leggings and a white shirt, far too large, and he has allowed me to dress his wrists again which is terribly gracious of him. They have been bleeding, and I must first soak the blood away before applying ointment and then bandages. He has been pale and tense the whole way through it – I think that I am happier that it is over than he is – and I have said that I told him so only once, which I believe quite restrained of me.

The door to the balcony is open, far to my left through a thicket of honeysuckle, but the breeze still finds its way through and a fern is tickling my ear. I bat it aside only for it to swing back and hit me in the face.

Legolas is very quiet, I keep sneaking glances at him, and in the end he turns and stares back quite pointedly.

"I thought you might be sleeping," I admit, embarrassed. "It is not easy to tell."

He rolls his head back around to where it was, his attention upon nothing, but I notice that his hands are clenching and flexing in his lap. They betray him.

"How did it go with Aragorn?" I ask. "I have been waiting for you to say something."

"In truth?" he murmurs, "poorly. We have both changed; he does not understand, and he becomes cross because I do not know what to say. _You_ would have known what to say."

"You put too much faith in me," I shake my head. "If I say the right thing it is often by accident. It was not for me to be there, my friend; this was between you and Aragorn."

"It is difficult to live up to the expectations of King Elessar," he replies, and there is bitterness in his tone that I have not heard before. "You and I are just as damaged and broken as the other – it is not so difficult when we are both being hurtful or making mistakes."

He catches himself, glances at me and smiles ruefully. Rubs his face and swipes his hair back. "My apologies Gimli, I must be terrible company tonight. I am simply tired."

He is more than 'simply tired', as he puts it – he is an exposed nerve; raw and inflamed by the day he has lived. I can imagine that Legolas did not allow his conversation with Aragorn to go well, whether it was intentional or not. Kept behind like a scolded student and put on the spot? I thought that Aragorn knew him better than that; he is the one constantly telling me how difficult it is for elves to change, how they so rarely do. I am aware better than any how difficult he can be, but Aragorn could do well to listen to his own words occasionally.

I snort, and Legolas interprets it correctly.

"Do not think badly of him," Legolas murmurs, and I roll my eyes at his sudden reversal. "He is very young."

"Try and speak with him again tomorrow," I counsel, ignoring Legolas' opinion on what might be considered 'young'. "Do not leave things badly; you are brothers and he loves you, just as you love him."

I haul myself to my feet.

"I am abandoning you now my friend; I must sleep or else expire on the spot. I will do so in a bed this time rather than a chair, and certainly not in your little forest here." I wave my hand around this greenhouse and he laughs. I stop just inside the door as I leave, my hand resting on the frame, and I turn my head back toward him. "You will be well?" I ask.

"I will be well," he smiles, blinks slowly and leans back again. "Sleep well, Gimli."

I wonder how likely that might be, exactly, but when I reach my chambers I fall into my bed as though my whole life has led to this moment. Every muscle relaxes instantly, it is pure bliss, and I had every intention of brooding and pondering for a while but I drop into sleep almost instantly.

If I have dreams, I recall none of them.

TBC

* * *

 **And that is the three, and exactly where I meant to leave things for the year.**

 **I'll be honest guys; I don't normally post this close to the festive season because I know - even if you don't celebrate Christmas specifically - this is generally a time for family. I genuinely don't expect a huge number of reviews here, but these stories have to be told and I don't get a lot of say in this matter. I'd like to imagine you all out there, in the quiet moments between the big meal and the cheese and biscuits, skimming through the chapters on a couch whilst being climbed upon by small children you're vaguely related to. This is enough for me.**

 **Although if you wish to review, I will never try to dissuade you from it! :D**

 **On a more adult note, if any of you are feeling a bit rubbish or sad or need someone to speak to, I am _literally_ always here. I have a quiet Christmas planned, and I know what it is like to really feel things at this time of year. Please drop me a PM if you're at a loss - I'm happy to just chat rubbish if that's what you need as a distraction.**

 **Happy festive period, whatever denomination you belong to, and thanks to everyone who has stayed with me through everything. It's been a dreadful year, but it actually got a bit better toward the end. I likewise wish you health and happiness for you and yours for the next year.**

 **Have a great end to 2016**

 **MyselfOnly xxx**


	14. Chapter 14

When I wake, it takes time to reconcile where I am and what has happened, but not long. It comes to me quickly, and it is with a jolt of alarm that I realise the light coming through my window is not the light of morning – this is the light of a fully established day. I freeze in horror as I hear the distant toll of bells sounding from the city below, and I count them.

Eru it is past midday! I have been piggishly asleep for almost all of it!

I rise quickly and make an utter hash of dressing myself, burst through the door between my room and Legolas' to find that he is not there. He is not in his room or in his little woodland, or on the balcony or anywhere at all, and I think I am going to die on the spot.

 _He is lost, gone, taken again…._

My heart slams in my chest, I brace my hands on my knees, begin to gasp my way toward a full collapse of the mind, but then I see a scrap of parchment on his desk with my name on it.

I snatch it free and squint my way through Legolas' blasted handwriting – in that spider scratching they call a language, no less. I crumple the letter up and throw it angrily into the fireplace when I am done, because I am strangely furious at my own reaction. My first assumption cannot always be that something has happened to him – that something is wrong – but perhaps I should wait for six months _without_ something happening to him before I kick myself too hard over it.

He is meeting with Aragorn in the gardens, he says, and he would have woken me had such a thing proven physically possible. Should I awaken ever again, there are guards outside who will lead me to them, and if I do not then I have been an adequate friend and he wishes me well in my new life as a very ugly piece of statuary.

Idiot.

~{O}~

When Legolas says that he has left guards, what he means is that he has left almost _all_ of the guards. I open the door to find quite a crowd, and I search the faces there until I find one that I recognise. Ren leans against the wall, arms folded, and he pushes himself away once he sees me. His red hair is scruffy and he looks tired, but he also smiles in genuine pleasure and claps me on the shoulder, shoves the others away so that we can get past.

"We thought perhaps you had died, Master Gimli!" he crows happily. "The lads and I were drawing lots as to who told the elf!"

"Who was losing?" I ask, unable to help the grin that forms across my face as we walk. They are all terrified of my friend, and there is something affable and warm about Ren that is difficult to dislike.

"Céorl," he grins. "He nearly cried. This way my Lord; we are taking the servant's corridors today."

He leads me to a hidden door, which is not so much 'hidden' as it is 'invisible'. It is crafted so that the eye passes over it almost entirely, and once we are inside I find myself in tunnels cramped and narrow but dry and warm. They are well trod, worn smooth, and they actually smell rather nice: warm bread and clean laundry, candle wax and soap. We see only one other person – a slight young girl with bound hair in a simple dress of blue – and she pauses in her duties, presses against a wall to let us pass and ducks her head. She glances up as we pass, sees that I have seen, blushes furiously and hurries on her way.

"Not that I dislike spending time in new places of stone," I observe, my voice sounding strangely flat down here, "but why do we take this route?"

"It is the only way," Ren tells me. "They are not the King's gardens that we go to, they are the kitchen gardens. It was Prince Legolas' idea."

"Of course it was," I mutter, and when Ren makes a noise for me to repeat what I have said, I speak a bit louder. "Why there?"

"Who would look for the King of Gondor in the place where we grow the potatoes, my Lord?" he shrugs.

It is not the worst idea, I have to admit.

We walk for a good distance more, silent except for the dusty shifting of what sounds like a million pairs of boots, and after countless turns I am lost. Ren spends the entire time talking; he has spent the morning with the elfling, who has visited the prisons with the Lady Briar so that she could question those men captured during Legolas' rescue. He tells me how she singled out just one, took him away from his fellows and said not a single word as she walked him away, shut him up in a tiny room rank and damp, and tied him to a chair.

With a grin and a hushed voice he describes how frightening the Lady was – how if she threatened _him_ with a blade the way that she did, he would have spilled his deepest and most precious secrets too. Probably those of his family as well.

"Cold, she was," he tells me. "Like ice, as though she had no care for the life of any other. She would have crippled him without thinking twice about it afterward, I know it. With the Prince stood behind her… you know how he is; even I felt intimidated and I was only stood in the doorway! Why, the fellow soon changed his stance on matters! He sang like a bird, he described his masters quite thoroughly. That Edgar fellow is there now, trying to capture their likeness."

I keep quiet, because Ren needs little encouragement when he is talking, but he tells me everything I need. Fascinating, and more than I would probably get from the elfling – indeed I will be surprised if he even mentions this to me – and it gives me something to think on as we walk.

When we reach the end though, my ridiculously large procession allows me to leave them freely. Ren opens a rickety wooden door that creaks alarmingly upon its hinges, sunlight stings my eyes, and I hear rather than see my guard take position around the door. They make themselves comfortable, and do not follow me.

Eru it is painfully bright, and for a moment my eyes sting and water. I blink and squint, and after a while I become used to the sunlight as well as the fact that this place is almost _aggressively_ green.

The lawn is thick and a trifle unkempt, ankle deep and damp with rain. We are walled in by the mountain, completely encircled, but it is a very large nook that they have found for this garden – indeed I can barely see the furthest rise of Mindolluin, and I would estimate this at half a mile square at the very least.

There are crumbling brick walls that brace terraces, crooked steps meandering from foot to summit, tipsy and rambling so that they spill into one another. There is a high bricked soak and spigot, with a wide stretch of dirty water rippling in the breeze to my right. Shovels and trowels and rakes are propped against it, buckets and hoes and baskets, discarded implements of the day's work. A wide swath of flagstone meets me, swept clear and clean, and there are small wooden footstools where I think the workers sit for their lunch. There are traces of them: the dust of pipe ash, a cup negligently abandoned upon a wall, a pair of muddy boots.

Further out I cast my gaze, and I see terraces – perhaps ten in total – wide and broad and huge. They grow food enough for this household, vegetables and fruit spilling and flowing. There are thorned things and spindly things, lush and expansive, broad and narrow and high. Some I even recognise. All of the plants that feed this stronghold grow here, it is the biggest garden I have ever seen, and for a moment I cannot move.

I look up, and I see a sky of blue uninterrupted by any cloud at all. It is warm, silent except for birdsong and the occasional zip of an insect. I can see the terraces of this garden rising a hundred… two hundred feet into the air as steep as any mountain has ever been, spilling and flowing and rolling like a river. We are cradled by the mountain behind, and open to the endless sky above, blue and green all that I can see. The sun softens upon ground still wet from last night, and I breathe in damp warmth that smells of life and freshness and Eru… it is a place of wonder!

I turn around, I turn a full circle, I hold my face to the sunlight and I cannot help but laugh. The joy in my heart is like a pressure against the darkness in my mind: it washes it clean and fills me to bursting, swells in my chest so that I cannot help myself. I am flotsam upon the wind, a child surrounded by wonder. The terraces rise – intimidating and tall and looming – but it feels welcoming rather than threatening. This is spectacular… truly spectacular.

Legolas, Aragorn and Arwen sit two levels down from mine, the lowest of them, and nothing grows there but grass. A wide lawn, soft and deep, and I trip down uneven stone steps until I reach them.

Legolas reclines upon his elbows, and he has made little effort today – he has removed his boots and he is without tunic or jerkin. A white shirt shifts and billows in the wind, falling free of one shoulder, and his hair tangles and catches. I catch his eye first and it consumes me… it is all that I can see. He can feel what I feel, I think that a lot of what I am experiencing has come from him, and for a heartbeat it is as though our link is new.

No time has passed, nothing has aged or weathered our connection: for a brief moment it is just the way it was when we were first joined together. We are tangled and knotted, heart and mind, and he knows that I can smell every flower and blossom, every nuance in the damp scent of soil, everything that comes upon the wind just the way he can. I feel unfettered joy, just as he does, and it is wild and savage and beautiful. Our eyes meet, and he smiles, and it is warm and understanding and secret just between the two of us. He says:

 _I know._

And I grin all the wider. I stumble onto the grassed terrace and fold myself to the ground, feeling the dampness seep into my rump as soon as I settle, but I do not mind. Aragorn looks windswept and bright, more like himself than I have seen him in a long time, and he smiles at me. Arwen is dressed like a wood-sprite; a thin cotton dress of pale green with her hair loose and tangled by the wind. She looks more like an elf today than I think I have ever seen her before, and she smiles warmly at me with dancing blue eyes, tucking ebony hair behind her ear.

There is a basket set aside, and in it there are bottles of watered wine and also ham, cheese and fresh bread. There are fruits and honey cakes, and I aim directly for those because I have become quite partial to them. I do not have to greet my friends, I do not have to say anything at all, and for a moment it is just the four of us upon the grass.

Arwen watches a bird fly past, cranes her neck until it is gone and then she and Legolas mumble something to one another. They race off across the lawn, barefooted and free of the trappings of their station. They sprint together the way that I have seen wild birds fly; light and joyful… no care at all for how they seem. The Prince of Lasgalen and the Queen of Gondor run and laugh, young elves caught by the wind and sky, and I watch them play with a smile upon my face.

"This is not what I expected for today," I tell Aragorn, dusting my hands off and leaning back upon my elbows. I continue watching Legolas and Arwen; they are now wrestling like warg pups, the way siblings do: dirty and formless and with far too much laughter. Many people think the Queen of Gondor as nothing but a smiling woman of immense beauty, but I know far better – she was raised with brothers and she is an elf; there is nothing soft or placid about her. Legolas picks her up and throws her over his shoulder, she growls and kicks and bites, and this is both un-princely and un-queenly, but I think it might be quite normal for them.

Even so, as entertaining as it is to watch, there is much going on; much for us to deal with and discuss and I am unsure that we have time for this. Aragorn knows what I mean and dismisses it with a wave of his hand.

"I have nothing if I do not have this," he admits. I turn and pay closer attention to him – I watch him very carefully – but his gaze is focussed too closely upon the elves. There is a smile upon his face, and I would give anything to keep it there. However:

"We have things to address, Aragorn," I point out, and he gives me a look that is flat and annoyed.

"You could not allow us this?" he asks, and I tilt my face toward the open sky. I feel guilty, as though I am ruining our day, but I scowl out toward the sunlight because I do not think that I should feel guilty.

Aragorn sighs after I have said nothing for a good long while, rubs his face, and I think I actually see the moment when the weight falls back across his shoulders.

"You are right," he says.

"No," I admit, a long exhalation of weariness. "I do not think I am."

I pull myself upright again, lean across and rest my hand on his arm the way that Legolas often does to me – I squeeze it tightly and attempt a smile that looks warm and fond, but probably comes across a bit like a grimace. I am being unkind.

"Forgive me," I smile. "This last year has made me forget the importance of such things."

"Perhaps we are both a little bit wrong, and a little bit right," he smiles back, and I am forgiven. "I have become quickly accustomed to safety, and have wanted so badly to spend this time with my friends. The timing is not appropriate. It matters not in any case!" he brightens with a grin, "I have had an idea!"

"Oh?" I tilt my head. "And were you thinking of perhaps sharing it with us, or did you have further activities planned first? We could go fishing…"

His grin turns pained, his eyes track immediately toward his wife who is quite a distance away. I do not think it is my glib comments that have turned his face so wooden and worried.

"I have a plan," he admits to me, "but I did not say that any of you would like it very much."

Legolas and Arwen – who really are quite far away – both freeze and turn toward us. There is silence for a while before I hear Arwen's voice sailing across on the breeze.

"It had better not be dangerous!" she calls, because of course they can hear us.

Aragorn sighs.

"I hate it when they do that," he mutters.

~{O}~

"You are quite right," I say. "I do not like it."

"I do not like it either," Arwen agrees, and we turn to Legolas when there is nothing but silence from him. He blinks and shrugs, and I feel my face twist into disgust.

"Oh _of course_ you agree with him," I bite out. "It is idiotic. Any chance at all to leap around with your knives… the two of you are cut from the exact same cloth, I swear it."

"There is no need to be insulting," Legolas scowls.

"If anyone has any ideas that involve no risk at all, I am quite open to hearing them," he glances at Arwen and then at me, and then at Legolas who holds his hands up.

"I am in agreement with you, do not become cross with me!"

"Perhaps we need further opinion than just ours," Arwen placates. "There will be more than just Legolas and Gimli involved in this."

"I will be involved in this," Aragorn frowns at her, and she shakes her head quite certainly.

"Do not be absurd," she says. "Of course you will not."

"I agree, Estel," Legolas nods, interrupting what I am certain would have been a fine tantrum from the King of Gondor. "You are far too important to risk in this."

I did not think that Aragorn's frown could deepen any further, but I was wrong. "No one was particularly against sending me to Mordor," he growls, "or any of the hundreds of very dangerous things I did before that."

"You will have to stop bringing up Mordor eventually," Legolas rolls his eyes hugely.

"That was different; you were not even slightly important back then," I tell him with a dismissive wave. He snaps his mouth shut – quite offended – and I twist around until I can see the guards two levels up. I whistle up at them and wave one down, and send for them to fetch Captain Hob, Lady Briar, and also Shutter although I would have been happier without him. She will probably bring him anyway, at least this way it is my idea. "You are a King now, and the fate of the lands is not in peril. You must trust us more; _we_ are your sword, and we act in your stead."

"So you agree with my plan now," he states flatly, his arms crossed. It is not a question, but the fire in his eyes has dimmed and I think perhaps my words have struck home. I also think that Aragorn is far too wise and clever to mean any of the umbrage he is suddenly deep in the throes of. He knows that he cannot be a part of this, not the way he wishes to be, but he also does not need to hide his annoyance from us. We are his friends, and deep inside he is still a ranger.

"Until I can think of something better, yes," I growl right back. "I am happier with this plan of yours knowing you will not be coming."

"Well, so long as _you_ are happy," he bites out.

Aragorn knits his brows together and shuts his mouth firmly once more, as though he has nothing kind to say and therefore will not say anything. We lapse into silence, and Legolas climbs across the grass on his knees to pick grass out of Arwen's hair, braiding it so that she is a bit more presentable for company. I narrow my eyes at him.

"Did you at least bring a tunic?" I ask him, and I gesture at his under-dressed state. "Or is this a gift for the Lady Briar?"

~{O}~

He did bring clothes, thankfully, and by the time we have company he is wearing boots again, and has buttoned a tunic of pale green and silver over his shirt. He still looks as though he has only just fallen out of bed, but now that we are no longer alone, the version of Legolas that I have spent the morning with has retreated. He is quiet again, serious and watchful, and because he is an elf he manages to seem dignified no matter how he is dressed.

We are not the only ones to sense the lack of formality in this meeting. How could we be, when we are having a meeting of such importance in a kitchen garden?

Captain Hob wears his uniform, as always, but Shutter has cast aside his brightly coloured clothes in favour of his usual greys and browns. The Lady herself is dressed rather girlishly, in a short dress of deep green that seems to be quite fashionable in Minas Tirith this spring, and her hair is bound.

She eyes Legolas quite, _quite_ thoroughly, and smiles at him but it is not friendly. My cheeks flush at the look she gives him, and the idiot elf meets her eyes with something almost resembling a challenge. He will never learn.

"It is not a terrible plan," Captain Hob muses, scratching his hand across his short hair the way he often does. He seems far more comfortable out here, making plans on the grass, and he stretches himself out beneath the sun because if it is good enough for his King, then it is good enough for him.

"It is better than sitting and talking about things," Shutter agrees. He has helped himself to the picnic, and I have noticed that our thief cannot seem to sit within striking distance of food and manage to keep his hands to himself. I have seen much the same behaviour in soldiers who have gone without for long periods of time in the past, and I wonder how easy it is has been for him growing up… how he became a thief in the first place.

"How went your meeting?" Legolas asks him, and I am starting to think that there is benefit in speaking infrequently in company. Whenever he does speak, everyone listens.

"As I expected," Shutter tells him through a mouth full of _my_ honey cakes. "I could not even find him."

"Larke and Liana could not find the server Tanner, either," Hob tells us. There is silence for a while, and I know that we are all thinking the same thing.

"I do not think that we will find them," the Lady Briar voices our thoughts. She clears her throat, turns to the Queen, and I am quite surprised that Steward of the Second seems less certain of herself for a moment. Arwen sits with her feet pulled beneath her, her braided hair a dark fall across one shoulder, and I have seen her wrestling in the grass this morning but she bears no sign of it now. "My Queen, if I could beg a favour of you; Master Gowry will not leave Teg, and I must speak with the seamstresses. Might you introduce me to the first amongst your ladies in waiting?"

"Of course," Arwen smiles, and it is soft and kind and welcoming. "A simple enough thing; they will be in the arbour by now. You have an idea?"

"That depends on how fast your ladies are," Briar tilts her head, musing. "If we are to draw out these assassins, if we are to play bait and risk danger by making them come to us, then we need not make it easy for them."

"It is more theatrical than I am used to," Hob observes, and there is a grudging agreement in his voice, "but it will certainly confuse matters. My King you have plans for how this is to happen?"

"A brother told me this morning that I am to trust my friends more," he says. His glance flickers only briefly toward me, and I see only the smallest smile. "Hob, Gimli and Briar – you are strategists, and I think you can make the best of this plan. Shutter and Legolas – the two of you are the keenest of scouts, and you must decide on _how_ this will happen. I would have Legolas oversee all of the final arrangements, because although I have the greatest of respect for my Captain, I trust in the experience of elves. If anyone is to set an ambush, we would be well suited to listen to a Lasgalen elf."

Shutter holds his hand in the air.

"And if he loses his mind again?"

Briar hisses a reprimand, and I feel myself open my mouth ready to defend the elfling, but he beats me to it.

"My threat still stands," Legolas says. His voice is calm, he does not blink or shift, his face does not change from stillness. He resembles his father very much in these moments… when his is so still, so cold. Shutter points at me.

"Your threat was if I touched or harmed him."

"When I lose my focus, I still recognise my friends… you should be trying harder to be considered one. And in any case, do you fear me that much?"

"Hardly," Shutter snorts.

"Then you have no concerns at all," Legolas says, but then something happens that horrifies me: Shutter grins at the elfling, and Legolas' face actually softens into something like a smile of amusement. The outrage! I am utterly scandalised!

I am unsure whether it is the dart of betrayal that I send in his direction, or the look of horror upon my face, but Legolas looks at me and _shrugs_ , of all things. He had better not be making friends with this idiot!

I would explore this further, but of course Legolas has been given command and he slips into this guise as naturally as anything. He stands, dusts grass off his rear, and suddenly all eyes are upon him. My elfling is used to being in control, in his orders being followed, and I would be a fool not to realise that he is very good at it.

He says that he would have Captain Hob decide on his best men, although he wishes to choose the archers himself and only after he has seen them at bow. He would have them ready for inspection in an hour, by which time he and Shutter should have returned.

I am to attend the Lady Briar, and will have her guards working with Ren and Larke. Once we are done, we will meet back with Captain Hob and decide what is to be done, and then Shutter and Legolas will discuss _where_ it is to be done, and then we are to finalise things.

Larke is tasked with sourcing good maps, and Ren is to gather the best of the Whitecloaks and City Guard together. Mouse is to meet us at the Rookery when Legolas inspects the archers; an extra scout to work with the elfling and with Shutter, and Captain Hob is to organise these things.

It is not often that I see my friend acting as a captain, as a leader, and I have to stop myself from leaping to my feet and snapping to attention. He is confident and assured, and there is not a single person amongst us who does not respond to him instantly.

Hob is to his feet and claps Legolas on the shoulder as he passes, climbs back up the terraces and leaves. Legolas stands with Aragorn and Arwen for just a moment, taking their leave, just as Shutter and Lady Briar talk for a moment, laugh, and then split apart. I have the Lady by my side just as Legolas has the ridiculous little guttersnipe at his, and we pause just for a moment to share a look.

I try to tell him not to get himself kidnapped this time, or possessed or murdered or fall off a cliff, or any of the things that both could happen, or have actually happened to him in the past. He stops me with a smile though, and then a wave, and he is moving quite quickly up the terraces with Shutter at his side. I take a deep breath, let it out slowly, and it is not a sigh at all. I feel a presence ghosting next to me, I look up to see the Lady Briar watching me with those dark eyes, deep with understanding.

"He is good at what he does, friend Gimli," she tells me, meaning Shutter.

"It is not that," I mumble. "Legolas is exceptional, he could do this alone. What I worry about… it is complicated. I should not be speaking of it. Let us go my Lady; we have been given a set amount of time, and he is only aware of its passing when he has put markers upon it. He is terribly strict as a captain."

We take our leave from the King and Queen – the former grips my shoulder tightly and the latter kisses me upon the forehead – and I leave with the Steward of the Second at my side. We climb the terraces together, and I see her face melt into a huge smile. I do not know her well at all, but it is unusually guileless for the woman I have seen so far.

"Oh, friend Gimli," she breathes, answering before I have asked. "This has been quite a week for me. I have met my King and spent time with Prince Thranduilion, I walk and I work with Gimli Gloinson, and today I have met the Evenstar!"

She turns and beams, and for a moment she is not the woman who keep thieves and assassins under a tight rein but rather the young woman that she is, excited and bright. She clasps her hands together and I cannot help but catch her delight. I laugh as well.

I always take such things for granted – I am favoured with quite magnificent friends – and the pleasure she finds in the meeting of them touches me in some way. To me, we are not so exciting or wonderful, but to her it is quite different.

I hope that we hold up to her expectations.

~{O}~

We meet with the seamstresses, a clutch of women of all kinds and ages, who seem quite overwhelmed by the Lady Briar and who take her request as a challenge of vast importance. She tells them her wishes, and the women start to cut and collect fabric as soon as they know their task. They cluck and scold and natter at us, a whole swarm of women who know their trade far better than anyone, and somehow they find time to measure Briar for a new dress.

We are granted an aide – an older woman named Eostre who is ample and round and red-cheeked – and she is sent to the garrison to meet with Ren, where she will take measurements and sizes and report back to the battalion of women. Then we have a short amount of time spare before we are due to meet at the Rookery, and we take a walk in the Queen's gardens.

Arwen is an elf, and so her gardens are flush with life more so than any other. It is early in the year and so the blossoms are heavy, weighty in the trees and hanging low, but the flowers are still budding and the leaves upon the bushes and plants still unfurling. The grass that we walk upon is green and healthy, rising thick under the sun that we walk beneath, and despite the wind I start to regret bringing my cloak. It is very warm, and I feel my beard springing with the wind and my face becoming pink beneath the sun. We walk slowly and comfortably together, and although the Lady Briar is regal enough in bearing for these gardens to seem as hers, she begins to open herself to me.

"We were children together," she tells me. She speaks of Shutter, although I would prefer that she did not. "That is not his name, of course, but it is the name that he has decided upon right now. He is possibly the only friend that I have… he knows me better than anyone alive."

"He is…" I struggle to think of a word, any word at all. I find it quite difficult because I really do not like Shutter. "Dedicated," is the word that I finally settle upon, and she laughs. It is rich and full, and I feel something inside me clench at the sound of it.

"Oh, friend Gimli," she smiles, distant and lost in past darkness. "You must not be cross with him. What he has grown from, what he could have become… his mother died when he was very young, and his father was a cold man."

I am hit by a pang, because that sounds extremely familiar.

"It excuses nothing," I say, and I do not recognise my own voice. His parentage is no excuse… none at all. We are nothing alike.

The Lady Briar stops me. We stand still upon a damp lawn of deepest green, shadowed by the dappled light beneath nodding trees of white blossom. For a moment her face is blank, her eyes deep and dark: she has become once again the woman who stewards streets filled with dark and dangerous men, and who has kept it running for years without aid. She is iron and grit and endlessly tired.

"It does not excuse it," she tells me firmly. "It explains it. We were not all born the sons or daughters of lords and ladies. We were not all sent upon quests, after which our names were spoken with respect. Some of us have had to fight to eat, to keep our homes, to stay alive."

"You think…" I begin, aghast, and then fail, and then try gain. "You think that the Quest kept me fed and comfortable and happy? You think that it was an easy thing to do? That _any_ of it has been?"

"That is not what I meant," she shakes her head, undeterred, "but I think that you are more similar than you realise."

"To Shutter, or whatever his name actually is?" I curl my nose.

"It matters not," she sighs, and I think she realises I am not to be swayed. "He is dear to me, although most find him difficult and strange. Perhaps _that_ you understand."

I open my mouth to respond, but I find that I am trapped. I scowl, annoyed, but it is difficult to remain angry with her and she changes the conversation smoothly and carefully. She asks me of the Lonely Mountain, and of places that I have been, and at first I try to remain surly and stubborn but she is inquisitive and genuinely curious. My poor mood melts away quickly, and it is not long before we are speaking comfortably – just an out of place dwarf and a keeper of thieves, walking in royal gardens, as is quite normal.

~{O}~

We find Legolas and Shutter back at the Rookery, and it seems they have conducted their business far quicker than we have. We are quite a distance from the buildings that I have previously visited – away from where they eat and live and do whatever else it is they do in those buildings – and we are even past the store rooms. There are trees here, deeply nestled into the thin soil and cracked stone, although they are gnarled things and not very tall. It is rather overgrown; a long run of grass has been hacked out of the brambles and weeds, rough and uneven, but it is all that is needed for practising at bow. The targets are solid wood, there is a new fence built around it absolutely bristling with splinters, and I can see cloaks draped across it and packs discarded at the posts.

Legolas is with ten very nervous, very unsure archers, and he is putting them through their paces. I have seen what he puts his own archers through… these lads are right to look so despondent. I can hear his voice raised in sharp commands, the Whitecloaks line up one by one to show their skill, and I can hear the steady thud of arrow hitting target, one after another.

Shutter and Hob lean against the railing, watching with interest. I hear the deep baying of a huge hound and a thin laugh, and Sig goes streaking past, chasing Moss. The boy has been bathed and clothed and has had his hair trimmed to something more resembling a mannish child, but he still looks as though he has been rolling around in the dirt. I watch him laughing, running, wrestling with his dog.

"Should we really have a child running around whilst they do this?" I ask as we approach, gesturing at the miserable archers and the shouting elf.

"They are not _that_ bad," Hob scowls.

"The Prince might disagree," Shutter grins, thoroughly entertained by the spectacle, and leans slightly to receive a kiss upon the cheek from the Lady Briar. He does not look at her, but I see his hand rest at her back – easy and relaxed in the way of the best of friends. I expect Hob to become annoyed but he merely sighs, rubs his hand over his hair with a rasp and I cannot help but laugh as well. Legolas' voice cuts through the sunlight, annoyed and sharp, and he strides over to correct the stance of the pale-faced lad currently offered up as sacrifice.

"Do not look so wretched, friend Hob," I clap him on the shoulder. "Legolas' archers can hit a bird in flight on a moonless night and think nothing of it – I have seen them do it – and he shouts at them just the same. He would have simply walked away if he considered them beyond hope."

We fall into silence as Legolas and the young archer speak, there is a lot of gesturing, and then the lad steps aside as the elfling returns to the post where his bow and quiver lay propped. He runs back, now adequately armed, and stops in a perfect stance – straight and strong, every angle of his body correct. Legolas reaches back, retrieves an arrow, nocks it and pulls and releases in a single movement. There is no pause, no hesitation, no visible moment where he even aims but his arrow flies true and hits the target dead centre. He can be such a show off.

The Lady Briar sighs appreciatively, Shutter thwacks her upon the arm with the back of his hand and she laughs – rich and deep.

The elfling steps to one side, speaks, the lad lines up next to him and they both draw together. I can see the young Whitecloak scowling in concentration, his gaze flicking up and down Legolas' body and shifting his own… minute movements, determined and focussed. They relax, speak again, and this time Legolas steps back. The lad pulls, draws, and this time gets a sharp word of praise although for the life of me I cannot see anything different. I can see the lad's face as the elfling moves away though, and it is glowing.

"He is good," Hob admits.

"Half of Gondor would have been eaten by orcs generations ago were he not good at what he does," I shrug and wander away. I have seen all of this before, it grows tiresome after a while. I do not get far though before a tiny mop headed creature slams into my ribcage, and the only reason he does not bounce off this time is that he wraps his arms tightly about me. I raise my arm to see Sig attached like a limpet.

He grins up at me, blue eyes happy, and he looks far better than when last I saw him. Far, far better. My hand rests naturally upon the top of his head, although it is not intentional.

"Lord Gimli sir, I have been given lots of food and cake! And they even washed Moss, sir, and he is a different colour than I thought he was – it was all the muck, you see!" he laughs, the thin and dancing sound of the very young. "And they put flowers in their baths here, which is odd, and I find that I like honey cakes very much indeed but I do not like having my hair brushed at all. I am going to live with Edgar now, all of the time, is that not wonderful? And if he does well when he draws his pictures of the bad men, then he will be given employment and we will even get a house here on the sixth! Edgar's burned down, after all. The sixth circle is _fancy_ , Lord Gimli sir, very fancy and the houses all have roofs that do not leak. Will you play soldiers with me and Moss? I was going to be a Whitecloak but now I am an elf, because the Prince has given me a bow and I will practise with it and become an archer instead. Would you like to see it?"

It takes me a while to absorb such a deluge of words, all strung together with no form at all, and I stand there blinking for a moment whilst my mind catches up.

"What have you been feeding the boy?" I frown over to Hob, who shrugs hugely. I shift my gaze to Legolas, who is far away in the practise field, quite studiously avoiding my gaze. I add: "You gave him a bow?" but he ignores me as though he cannot hear, although I know that he can.

"Come and _see_ Lord Gimli sir," Sig pleads, exasperated, pulling at my sleeve with his entire body weight. He is tiny and therefore it shifts my own bulk not at all, and I am starting to wonder whether 'Lord-Gimli-Sir' might be my new name.

"Sig," Shutter calls out boredly, "leave Lord-Gimli-Sir alone, you can show him your bow later."

The boy looks destroyed, his whole body slumping, but he is certainly resilient. He lets go of my sleeve and announces:

"I will bring it here instead!" and then sprints off as though the hordes of Mordor are at his heels. Moss bounds away behind him with his tongue lolling, stopping to sniff – and urinate on – more or less everything that he passes.

"He likes you," Briar observes, touching my elbow lightly with a rare and warm smile.

"He _worships_ him," Shutter huffs, rolling his eyes as though he has never heard of anything so ridiculous. I clench my fists at my side to stop myself from punching him in the nose. "He has not stopped chattering about 'Lord Gimli sir', and how he is going to grow an enormous beard just as soon as he learns how. A lack of correct food has addled his mind, I blame myself."

"If he is here, then where is Edgar?" I ignore the horrible little thief. I think perhaps this might be the better approach.

"He is with Larke," Captain Hob tells me. He turns and hooks both elbows back across the top beam of the fence, leaning comfortably. The sun is in his eyes, he waves an insect away, and I realise that it has become quite warm out here. Another thud, something shouted in _laegrim_ elvish that I am glad no one understands, a jeer from one of the lads waiting. I think that they are starting to warm to this.

"I thought that he was to sketch the likeness of the men who lead the kidnappers," I frown. Hob grants me a careful look – apologetic, although I pretend I have not seen it. I think I am coming across as the elfling's nursemaid, but if any would understand the nervousness I have around my friend's safety these days, it is the captain.

"The city maps that Prince Legolas has asked for… they do not all exist, and so they have had to make some fairly swiftly. It was his decision to move his attentions to this task; Edgar has a skill for it, and Larke has an exceptional memory. They will not be too long, I would wager. Ren and Lirra are with young Teg and that stuffy old man, Master Gowry."

"You were successful?" Shutter turns his attention to the Lady Briar, and she nods.

"They will be ready by tomorrow," she tells him, and her gaze is still focussed on the archers… or rather, one archer. I am reminded of a cat watching its prey, and I would tell her about Faelwen if I thought it might make any difference at all.

I hear a distant squeal of delight, and we look over to see a group crossing the grass toward us. It is Larke and Liana, and Mouse has apparently been elected as the carrier of maps. The poor lad is bristling with them – under each arm and tucked under his chin – and they keep spilling loose, but he manages to catch each one before they fly away. Edgar is with them, and it is this that has Sig squealing with excitement.

The boy skips in front of them, flowing with words and with his new bow in his hand. I can see Edgar clearly enough to know that he is asking who thought it a good idea to give him a weapon, scowling in horror, and I have no doubt that Legolas was no bigger than Sig when he was given his first bow, but he was also probably twice the age than I am now.

"Legolas!" I call out, calling his attention to the fact that our companions have returned.

"I am busy!" he shouts back irritably. I sigh.

~{O}~

Once we are done with matters – after hours poring over maps and arguing terribly, and writing things down only to tear it to pieces and start again. After the elfling has told Captain Hob which of his archers are considered acceptable, and which of them should never be allowed to touch a bow again for their own safety. After Legolas and Shutter have decided not to be friendly any longer, to nearly come to physical blows and then reconcile again. After we have had lunch brought to us and devoured it, and after we have finally – Eru _finally_ – agreed upon things, we have a moment to simply breathe.

We enjoy the last of the sunlight. It falls swiftly, casting long shadows of burned gold, and the warmth drops from the air far too soon. We wait for Ren and Lirra to come to us – they are the last to hear everything in full – and so we fall into quiet reflection because it has been a full day, and there is much still to come.

It is comfortable; we have become at ease with one another very quickly, and I sit upon grass that is damp enough to seep through my rump and muddy my hands. I can hear the others speaking, low voiced and without any importance to their conversation, and I pay it little attention.

When Ren and Lirra return I smile to myself, because even from a distance I can see something. I cast my gaze backward and the others are paying no attention, talking and laughing – the oddest group to have found friendship, but we very rarely get to choose whose hearts and minds simply work together. I turn again, I watch the two silhouetted against a dark sky – both tall and lean and clever and quiet. They are quite close together. I think perhaps they are holding hands.

I smile again and look away, because all I can give them is their privacy.

Legolas is kneeling in the grass a short distance away, his back to us, and his hair burns red-gold in a wash of fading sunlight. A blackbird calls a farewell to the day and there is a small golden haired boy stood at his shoulder, slight and fragile and far too strong for someone so young. He holds a bow in the sunset light – finally silent and focussed – and Legolas corrects his body in gentle movements. His voice is too soft for me to hear, but the boy responds to him; looks at him with a serious gaze that is trusting, that sees my friend as an ancient hero worthy of awe, because that is what he is.

I think that any son of Legolas' will be golden haired too.

TBC

* * *

 **I seem to be getting this intermittent problem with this site, where I try to upload a doc and the entire page crashes but ONLY when I try to upload a document. Had it a few times before, but despite this issue (which has delayed me a bit) this chapter is still veeery overdue. Apologies. January and February have - so far - been way busier than even December was. Whilst I will never feel anything but blessed to have the friends that I have in my life, it'd also be nice to have a weekend to myself every now and then!**

 **I've also been very neglectful of my reviewers, and for this I am genuinely sorry. I have not given you the time you deserve, it has simply slipped away from me, and I swear to do better.**

 **ANYWAY! Enough of the chest beating. I personally have very mixed feelings about this chapter, because there are parts of it that I absolutely adore, but I am also very aware of the fact that it meanders terribly. Certain conversations had to be had, plans had to be wrought, some relationships had to change, but I tried to at least do this in interesting scenery. I also think it's my favourite closing line in a chapter so far.**

 **Let me know what you think. I'm going to be away next weekend after spending a very busy week in Bournemouth, but I will try and reply to my reviews if I am able to. If not, I will get back to you this time I promise!**

 **On a final note (yes this is going to be a massive author's note) next July I will be walking 23 miles along the Jurassic Coast for Macmillan Cancer Support. This is a HUGE deal for me - I'm not 100% convinced I won't kark it and have to be helicoptered off a cliff halfway through - but I will do this, and it's a huge turning point in shedding the old me. If anyone is interested in sponsoring me, let me know and I'll send you a link to my JustGiving page, but if not then your support will be hugely appreciated.**

 **I'M GOING TO DIE YOU GUYS! XD**

 **MyselfOnly**


	15. Chapter 15

We have time then, because there are things that have been set in motion and must happen in their own time.

A night and a day, that is what we have agreed, and so we have a night and a day to wait. I thought that I might be anxious or irritated with the slowness of the hours, and I thought that Legolas would be unbearable whilst we wait, but it is not so.

That night we dine with the King and Queen again, and we talk deep into the night. We speak of things we have done together and places we have been, and Aragorn tells us a tale of his youth involving Legolas and the sons of Elrond. It is not particularly flattering for any of them, but Legolas laughs until he cannot stop. He loses himself quite thoroughly to the memory, choking upon nothing until Aragorn must clap him on the back, and I have not seen him laugh that way in… Eru, it has been longer than I can recall.

I sleep well, I dream of nothing – or at least, nothing bad – and I wake at a reasonable hour to another beautiful day. The sun streams through my window, clear and sharp, and I find my way to Legolas' balcony although he is not in his room. He is not far away though, I can feel him nearby, and I sit upon cool flagstone with my back to the mountain, closing my eyes against the sunlight. It is warm and silent, and I am almost asleep again by the time the elfling returns. I do not hear him, of course, but I know when he is there. I always know.

I crack one eye open as he folds himself, cross legged upon the stone before me. He has brought breakfast, bless his pointy ears, and he lays it out between us.

"I am going to live here from now on," I inform him.

"Minas Tirith?" he enquires politely, rummaging until he finds some kind of seeded bread and a jar of honey. The bread is still warm, I can smell it, and my stomach betrays me with a mighty roar that has the elfling eyeing it with alarm.

"No, this balcony. Although it could do well with some chairs, perhaps."

Legolas grins, bites and chews, and his gaze drifts outward to the clear sky, un-marred by any flaw at all. I see a slight touch of a frown dance across his brow for a second, sigh, and reach for the basket he has brought. There had better be honey cakes in there.

"Bad weather?" I ask, because I do not always need our connection to be able to read him.

"A storm," he confirms. "A bad one, and unfortunately timed. It will be here by tonight."

"You could not have mentioned it when we were making plans for tonight?"

He frowns at me. His hair blows across his face, he frees it from his mouth with a hooked finger and complains softly:

"I cannot tell the weather days in advance. It does not come to me by some form of magic."

I make a noise, a grunt or a snort, but my focus is still mostly upon the basket so I am not certain. I find them, finally, and settle back with my prize but then remember myself. I gesture and he sighs, holds his arms out so that I can check his wrists. They are well healed, the wounds look a week old at least, and I tilt his face with my thumb so that I can see the worst of the bruising. It is all but gone, and so I settle again once I am satisfied. I need not check any further; if his visible wounds do well, then so do those beneath his clothing. I grow weary of seeing his growing collection of scars.

"I assume you have been checking on things this morning?" I ask, and he nods.

"Young Teg has been blathering our business throughout the kitchen staff since he was released," he confirms. "I am told they are a gossipy bunch, his tale has probably spread to Rohan by now. I must say… I am concerned how this will make Aragorn seem."

He frowns, his gaze fixed on the far distance, and despite the crease on his forehead he holds himself relaxed and easy. He is correct, perhaps; the story that young Teg is spreading around the palace right now does not paint their King as the benevolent and merciful ruler he has been trying for. So far as anyone is concerned, the prisoners taken in the rout in the kelp tunnels are to be hanged tonight. We are hoping to draw their fellows out of hiding, even if it is not to rescue them. The Steward of the Second is also to be hanged, because the attempted poisoning has been assumed as an attempt upon the King's life, and we think perhaps our mysterious attackers will make a showing for her, if not for their men.

It is meant to be secret, meant to be done in quiet… it is bait to catch a larger fish, and by Eru it is a flimsy plan. The flimsiest I have ever been a part of.

"It was Aragorn's idea to begin with," I point out, "we have always trusted him before. And in any case, I would like to see them try to take his crown away; it was his from the moment he was born and he is handy with a sword. He would tie it to his head."

Legolas grins again, but he is distracted – his attention upon the sky.

"If it makes you feel any better at all, this is the correct punishment for attempted treason – and also for an attempt upon the life of a visiting royal… he will be forgiven."

Legolas makes a noise – something wan and without any commitment – but his eyes are still very far away, his brow still furrowed. I reach out my foot and nudge at his knee, give him a questioning look and he sighs, rakes his hand through his hair but it becomes tangled in the thatched mess that the wind has twisted it into. He tilts his head to one side and begins to tease it apart.

"We have made friends here, I think," he sighs, and it is one of his more world-weary sighs. One of those sad and woeful efforts that elves are so accomplished at.

"Making friends is not such a terrible thing, Legolas," I chide, but I cannot help the amusement in my voice. "For someone with so few, you should be happy to make the numbers up a little."

I cringe as soon as I have said it, because the only reason Legolas has so few friends is because most of them are dead. I can always be counted on to handle such things with my usual ham-fistedness, and I berate myself, closing my eyes. Legolas feels a measure of my internal squirming; the look he gives me is soft and fond… tells me there has been no offense; that he knows me better than that.

"They are men," he says flatly.

I see-saw my hand and screw my face up, indicating that in one case I am uncertain, and he laughs.

"Shutter is not so awful," he tells me through his grin, and this time when he looks out to the sky it is nothing more than to tilt his face into the wind. If I had a coin for every time I have seen a _laegrim_ elf turn their face to the wind, I would have many coins indeed. "You are much alike."

"Oh, not you too," I scowl in disgust, and his grin widens even further, but he says nothing else and continues unpicking his hair. I understand what he has said though. "You cannot be afraid to befriend men, Legolas. They are no more faulted than elves, they are simply younger, and you were brave enough to ally yourself with a dwarf."

"Foolish," he corrects me. "Foolish enough, and I have regretted it every day since then."

This time I do not nudge his knee; I kick it quite solidly with a satisfying crack, and he yelps in pain. I continue as he rubs his knee furiously, completely justified in my violence. "And in any case, they are quite handy – most of them. There are some grand adventures to be had with these friends, especially the Lady Briar. She is quite magnificent. You know that she would bed you in a heartbeat should you flutter your lashes at her."

I have chosen my moment perfectly. Legolas had just taken another bite of his breakfast, and now he is choking – great wracking coughs, his face reddening as he hacks and splutters. I laugh hugely, my voice bouncing from the stone walls and out into the wind, because it is rare that an elf loses their composure. Rare, and perfectly entertaining. I laugh until my stomach hurts, until I can barely breathe, and once Legolas has dislodged his breakfast from his windpipe he looks at me as though I am something he has wiped from his boot. He scrubs tears from his face, the redness receding, but I can see a ghost of a smile dancing across his face. I think perhaps he likes to hear me laugh too.

I calm, only the occasional chuckle, and the elfling does not dignify me with a response. I am happy to let the quiet fall across our balcony, settling warm and soft as sunshine, because my friend has always been happy in silence. I might feel the need to fill every quiet moment with noise – or so he says – but it is not always necessary.

"You are prepared?" I ask eventually, and although my voice is moth-soft he can hear it. I do not explain what I mean; he understands perfectly.

"I am," he replies, and I think I hear a hint of trepidation in his tone although I am not certain. It is there and then gone. "I am rested, I have been fed almost incessantly since I have been here. If I am to fight Oren again then he will find me a different elf."

He looks at me, our eyes lock, and a lot passes between us… I am worried, but there is no point in discussing it. Nothing can be changed. Instead I say:

"Just because they have fed you, you did not have to eat. You are going to have to find sturdier trees to climb."

He snorts a laugh and takes another bite of his honeyed bread. He is unconcerned.

"Have you ever seen a portly elf?" he asks. "I have not, and I am certain I have seen more elves than you have."

"Even so…" I raise my eyebrows pointedly. He laughs again, and I cannot help but smile because his laugh is a wonderful thing; it is one of the first things that endeared him to me, way back in Lothlorien. I made him laugh back then, and ever since I have wanted nothing more than to hear it.

We eat our breakfast in the sun, and for a moment I feel a twinge of worry about what this evening will bring, but I banish it. I can worry later – I am quite certain that I will in any case – and so for now I simply enjoy the company that I have chosen. I feel Legolas' contentment brush across my mind like a warm breeze, and I eat my honey cakes in peace.

~{O}~

Legolas spends a portion of the afternoon checking his arrows… every single _blasted_ one of them in painstaking detail, and I put up with it only long enough to recall that I am in a city, and can leave and do what I want. If we were in the woods I might entertain myself by throwing pinecones at him, but my shoulder twinges in remembrance at what happened last time I did that and so I do not. I leave to take a walk, because Legolas might be able to quell his anxiety with fletching, but I cannot. But then I pause in the doorway.

We are only hours away from sunset, only hours from sending the Whitecloaks out into the darkness – cloaked and hidden and dressed as condemned men. Only hours before we take the longest walk, from the prisons and down through the city, out the Great Gates and then around the city wall… far around to the western side where the gallows lie.

A forgotten place, where the base of the city meets the mountain. Shameful and dark, away from the eyes of good folk and where the condemned are buried almost where they fell. A place Aragorn has never used, not since he has been King, and it is badly damaged by the war – slides of rock from the mountain crumbled and smashed, tumbling until it is barely navigable.

This is where Legolas and Shutter will be hidden, tucked away with those archers he has chosen, waiting. They will leave first, a woodland ghost and an invisible thief, and with any luck the next time I will see him is when our trap is sprung. When the assassins come for their men, perhaps for Briar, or even do not come at all. When Legolas fights Oren again.

The elfling pauses in what he is doing, looks up at me, and I know he is thinking the same thing as I am. He blinks as though he is unsure what to say… he knows he should say _something_ , I can see him squirming with uncertainty, but I smile broadly at him.

"Breakfast tomorrow, as we did today?" I ask, and he is still for a moment before he smiles as well. He will be fine. We will both be fine. I hate it when we are separated like this.

"Aye, Gimli," he nods. "Just as we did today."

And it is a promise.

~{O}~

I take a slow wander to the Rookery, simply because I have walked there so many times recently that my legs simply take me there by reflex. It is still mid-afternoon, but the brightness of the day has already faded, the sky grey and threatening. A wind has picked up – jagged and angry – and it tugs my cloak in agitation, smelling thickly of rain and wind. I have long since stopped doubting Legolas' ability to predict the weather.

The Rookery is empty, and I am directed by a young apprentice to where I might find Hob and his men. The directions are lengthy and nearly incomprehensible, but after a number of failed attempts I locate them in a dusty old room in the Lowers. After a long walk in the cool silence, it is like walking into a tavern; loud and hot, raucous, and I take a position by the wall. I try to meld into the stone but I am spotted fairly quickly by the captain, who looks glad to find me here.

"Friend Gimli," he breathes in relief, clapping me on the shoulder and leaning against the stone beside me. We are an island of stillness in the melee, and for a moment we simply watch together. The men are being fitted by the seamstresses – their clothing for the night's activities nothing but matching colours in rough fabric – but these are Arwen's personal seamstresses. They must be perfectly imperfect. Prisoners and ruffians, men taken from the second circle.

I see threadbare holes made larger, mis-matched patches sewn on, well-fitting tunics made larger or smaller, perfect stitching un-picked and made uneven. The lads chatter and laugh, their voices loud, and the women scold and lecture them for their inability to stand still.

When Eostre arrives – her arms laden with packages wrapped in brown paper, two young girls trail behind her with their arms similarly laden – the noise dies down for a moment, all eyes falling upon her curiously. She throws a parcel to each of them – hitting them in chest and face and head, and they catch them with laughter.

"A token from the Lady Briar," Eostre announces, quick and serious, and there is a deafening rustle of paper as the men unwrap their gifts.

White cloaks. She has commissioned white cloaks for them all.

They are fine, I can see that from where the lads hold them up in admiration. They are stunned, overwhelmed – so very happy to finally have a symbol of their station that they might wear proudly. I see raw emotion there, roughly wiped away, and the noise builds again until it is a wave of voices: friends calling to friends, poking fun at one another and posing in their new cloaks. It is fine wool, heavy and warm but tightly spun, with braiding and a black version of the White Tree of Gondor stitched upon the back – a standard in negative.

I am grinning, and I try to compose my face as Hob receives his own – finer, nicer, with far more detail upon it. He pulls it on and grins at me, turns with his arms out so that I might see how magnificent he looks, and I am not the only one to laugh. Some of his men call out to him, saying he almost looks as a real captain for once, and although he rebukes them I can see real pleasure in his eyes.

The Lady Briar certainly knows how to make people love her.

~{O}~

Captain Hob pulls me aside, grips my sleeve and guides me out of the door where the noise is bearable. Despite the lack of privacy, once we are alone his face turns serious.

"She is missing," he tells me, and stares at me intently until my mind catches up. I blink.

"Who is missing?"

How has it been long enough for _anyone_ to become missing?

"The Lady Briar," he tells me as though I am stupid in some way. "We walk out of here in a matter of hours, and she is essential to this plan; you must find her and bring her here. I might not be a real captain, but I know when my men are growing concerned."

"I came here because the elfling was annoying me, what might you have done had I not?" I frown, curious more than anything, but when Hob opens his mouth I wave it away. "Is she truly missing, or have you simply not seen her in a while? Where was she last?"

"She went to find Edgar," he tells me. "The last I saw him, he was with Ren and Lirra in the rooms."

He means Queen Arwen's library room, the one that we have taken over as our main area for plotting and scheming. She has not seemed to mind our invasion, and we have not minded claiming it. I nod, and I see the gratitude and the immediate bolstering of his mood that my acceptance grants him.

"Stay here with your men," I tell him. "Keep their mind on what they do tonight; there is nothing for them to worry about."

He grips my arm again in thanks as I turn to leave, but I pause.

"Oh, and Hob?" I call him back as he turns to leave. He raises his eyebrows in question, his face open and questioning. "If you ever suggest to me again that you are not a real captain, I shall punch you in the nose."

Our gazes lock for a long time. I think he is simply surprised more than anything, but after a heartbeat I see the briefest flash of something honest, grateful, but then it is gone. He nods, short and sharp, and then it is chased by a rare grin. He looks better when he smiles; his eyes crease and the terrible history in his gaze melts away, and for a moment he is simply a man. He says nothing else though, because there is nothing else that would be sincere or easy between the two of us, and he ducks back into the loud room full of soldiers.

I take a breath, and I turn on my heel.

~{O}~

I am starting to learn my way around the lowers, because I must only retrace my steps three times before I find myself where I mean to be. I decide that I will be having words with Aragorn about his inability to decorate his home – not so that these corridors have anything to distinguish one from the other – but I shelve it until there is time. I find the door to the library open, I shove my way in, but I find it empty apart from Sig. Why is no one where they are meant to be today?

The boy is sat at a table with Master Gowry – who I am rather surprised to see, and whose eyes narrow and flicker for a moment in search of the elfling. The old man looks bored and irritable, the boy looks mutinous, and I have enough time to see that this is a lesson of some kind before Sig sends his chair clattering upon the floor.

"Lord Gimli sir!" he barrels into me and muffles into my beard, plaintive and heartbroken. "They say I must learn numbers as well as letters! It is dreadful, my head can only hold so much… I shall forget more important things!"

"If you will live on the sixth then you will be educated," Gowry scowls at the lad, his face wrinkling even more than I thought possible. He stands with his hands upon his hips like a spectre of death, a skeleton clad in man's clothes. "And there is an infinite amount of space in your head, I have never heard anything so foolish."

"A warrior does not need to learn numbers!" Sig shouts back, and this little wolf cub is nothing but teeth. I sigh; I need to know where Edgar has gone, and I will not get anywhere with them right now.

"That is incorrect, lad," I shake my head just as Gowry opens his mouth to shout back. Both the old man and the boy look at me as though I have just squawked like a chicken. "I learned my letters, and my numbers, and also history and language. Legolas learned as well, although he pretends to have forgotten the most of it. If you wish to be strong then your head must be strong, and you must do it now whilst your body is small. There will be time enough to learn bow and blade."

Sig looks revolted, but he does not argue with me and Gowry gives me an assessing look before ushering the child back to the table. He is muttering under his breath… how he has served this House for decades, served loyally and worked hard, and now he is reduced to nothing but a tutor for a feral child. He wonders aloud how he could possibly have offended his King so badly.

I say nothing on how important Sig has become to us all, and how this is quite an honour. He would not listen in any case.

"Where is Edgar?" I ask, because this is why I am here. "And where is the Lady Briar?"

"Oh, they were here," Sig informs me with a resigned sigh. He sits on his chair with his skinny little legs dangling, ink staining his sleeves, and peers at me with sky bright eyes that seem to believe me the grandest thing in the world. I feel quite inadequate around this boy. "I think that they had a quarrel," Sig frowns. "They were talking in the corner so I could not hear – adults do that all the time, it is rude. Edgar was showing her the drawing he has been doing of the bad men, the Lady became quite angry and left, and Edgar ran after her. I was not allowed to follow, because I must learn _numbers_."

He wrinkles his nose in revulsion, then slips to the floor and scampers across the room. He retrieves the sketch and hands it to me, shrugs and returns. This is the likeness of the man who leads this rout, the one who seeks to topple the Steward and take over the second circle. I had imagined him to look frightening or sinister in some way, but it is a sketch of a man, nothing more. There is something familiar in his eyes, something that tugs at me, but I do not recognise him, and I certainly cannot see why it would cause the Steward to fly into a rage.

I am still scowling at the picture when Shutter strides in, and when I look up at him I do not lessen the scowl even slightly. He forms one of his own.

"Were you waiting outside?" I ask sharply.

"I am looking for Lady Briar," he sniffs. He is making no effort to be clever or charming, and I think perhaps I prefer it this way.

"It seems everyone is looking for her," Sig observes, and Gowry raps the table to return his focus. Shutter sees the drawing in my hand and snatches it away before I can dodge him, which is lucky because that would have looked extremely childish. He casts his eye over it and his eyes widen, his face pales… he actually staggers.

That is interesting.

"Did she see this?" he demands, shaking the page at me. I fold my arms and narrow my eyes, but he simply leans forward and hisses at me. "Gimli this is important, there is no time for gaming with one another – _did she see this?"_

I drop my arms to my sides, because although his tone is hard and sharp, it is also afraid and completely unlike any version of him that I have seen so far. I sigh.

"Aye," I nod. "She saw it, and she ran from here."

He pales further, although I had not thought it possible, and he turns to leave although he gestures for me to follow. It is not a summons but rather a request, and although I _really_ do not like Shutter, I do not think that this is the moment for our feud.

"Shutter, the men march in a matter of hours and we have nothing with which to spring our trap. If Briar is not there then we do not know what we walk into. Who is that man?"

"Sig, stay here with Master Gowry!" Shutter shouts, striding through the door to the sound of a loud groan of annoyance, and I follow him out into the corridor. Shutter is striding along, all but sprinting, but I grow used to this sort of thing. He waves the picture in the air with an angry rustle.

"This… this man who leads the assassins, the ones who came to kill Briar and take over the second circle. This man is her brother!"

I am silent for a moment.

"The dead one," I clarify, just in case she has more than one.

"Yes, the dead one," he snaps back.

Oh.

TBC

* * *

 **So I wasn't actually going to post tonight, but Thirsty for More made me feel guilty XD**

 **In all honesty, I should probably give you guys an update on why this fic has slowed down with the updates, and it is simply that I've hit a bit of a stumbling block with it. I'm very short on free time, and there's just something not quite right with it at the moment - I have no intention of forcing it, and so the updates have gone a bit slack.**

 **From here onward we are now in the final arc of the story, and from here it gets far more action heavy. I really don't want to leave you guys hanging a month at a time between updates when it all kicks off, so if I go a bit quiet guys please trust me that it's necessary for the story. I will not abandon this fic, it just won't happen, but some of you guys have followed me for a while now and know that sometimes I just need a bit of catchup time. Feel free to send me prompts or requests, because if one tickles my fancy it could clear my mind and get things moving again :)**

 **Anyway - egg me on guys! Pop in, PM me, call me names (not too mean; I'm fragile) and of course the all important reviews, because they feed me.**

 **Hope you all have a great weekend :)**

 **MyselfOnly**


	16. Chapter 16

"Where are you going?" I demand, and it is all I can do to keep up with him. I feel like a child tugging at his sleeve, and it turns my agitation into annoyance. Shutter continues to stride onward.

"I am going to find her," he tells me sharply, as though I am an idiot.

"How?" I snort. "In this city… this _entire city_ , how do you plan to do this?"

"I know her," he informs me, "I know her better than she knows herself. I will find her before she does something idiotic."

"For _Eru's sake_ , man!" I shout, and something in my tone makes him stop so suddenly that I nearly barrel into him. He looks at me in irritation, gestures widely to show he is waiting for me to speak, and although I wish nothing more than to shove him into the wall I take the opportunity whilst I can.

"Legolas will be leaving in moments – he has probably already left. He is expecting to meet you at the base of the city, and you are meant to be watching his back."

"I am meant to be doing no such thing," he frowns. "I was to be in the hills to the west, guarding the retreat, just as he commands the archers above the gallows."

"Well I can hardly watch him from the rear of the procession!"

"She is alone, Gimli!" he says, and for a statement with such little volume to it, the force behind his words is as powerful as the tides. I do not hear a thief, a flamboyant actor, a charming snake… I do not hear any of the things that he pretends to be. I hear a friend, frightened for his friend… worried and anxious, and I know exactly how that feels.

I rake my hand across my mouth and down my beard, the bristles making a soft sound, and I groan loudly.

"Go," I tell him wearily, and he blinks in surprise. I scowl. "Hurry! Find her and return, I will find a substitute for her in the procession and you must find your way to the walls of the city as fast as you can. If Legolas is harmed because he imagined he had help where he does not, I _swear_ …"

"You need not threaten me," he tells me honestly, with a hint of his usual glib manner dancing at the edge of his mouth. "I will be where I must."

Shutter looks at me again, looks carefully as though it is for the first time, but he does not wait for long. He spins on his heel and runs away into the dimly lit corridor, and I take only a moment to swear very loudly and very nastily in as many languages as I can remember.

Cursed. We are very literally, and quite genuinely cursed. It is probably Legolas' fault, some way or another.

I hear the first rumble of thunder, faint and distorted by the stone, and I turn and run the opposite way.

~{O}~

For a moment I consider running after the elfling, but it is only for a moment. I am not so stupid as to think I could ever catch up with him, find him in the mass of broken rubble that is the mountainside, or be of any help once I get there. Legolas is more than capable of doing this alone, this is what he is good at, but it does not stop the thrill of worry that I feel. He is going into battle with incorrect information, and I can only trust in his experience and his skill, because I am needed elsewhere.

I stop only briefly in a room that is not mine, barely a detour at all thankfully, and then I am running as fast as I can to the rooms where I found Hob and his men only to find it empty. They have gone already, and I start to curse all over again but this time far louder. I run off again into the corridors, the initial thrills of alarm settling into a dull dirge of panic that I am woefully far too used to feeling. I had missed it, oddly, because I seem to have this sense of foreboding for most of the days I have lived.

I find the procession at our meeting place, a guard-house on the fifth level – the furthest we can go through the tunnels that everyone seems to know about but me. We will leave here in our full disguises, head our way to the gates, but by the time I arrive I am wheezing and gasping. I have just run through half of the city, the wind has become a force to be reckoned with and so I have battled it the whole way. I am about ready to keel over when the doors are opened by some very curious Whitecloaks dressed like wardens.

"There you are!" Hob hisses at me, drags me inside by the front of my jerkin and slams the door shut. "Where is she?"

"A lengthy tale," I heave, cough until I think I might die, and for a moment wonder if I should give up pipe weed. The wind rattles at the shutters, and the roof – which is not particularly well shingled – sighs and creaks as the gusts find entry. The candles flicker fitfully as I scan the room, locate who I am searching for and drag her near.

"You are no longer a fake warden," I inform Lirra, shoving one of the Steward's dresses at her with a whoosh of scented fabric. "You are a fake Briar instead."

She blinks at me, stunned, but to be fair to her and her sister, they take orders like the soldiers they are. She immediately begins to strip off her warden's uniform and I turn away, cheeks blazing, only to be almost flattened by Ren who shoves my axe wrapped in my own disguise at my chest. I stagger and pull them apart, tugging on an ill-fitting tunic and a cloak that smells of horse, as Hob jabs me in the ribs. He is trying to seem calm, but he is starting to fray at the edges.

I tell him what has happened as quickly and as quietly as I can, and now it is his turn to swear. He scratches his hand across his stubbled head angrily, and I can see the cogs whirring behind his eyes as he reassesses things.

"Prince Legolas?" he asks, realising that our friend knows nothing of this.

"Legolas will be fine," I snap, but it is worry and not anger and Hob knows this.

The first tapping of rain starts, a fitful patter that rises into a heavy drumming as the wind catches it. The faintest flicker of light, and then a ghost of rolling thunder an age later. The storm has begun – it is going to be a fine one indeed – and I smell wetness and cold upon the flickering gusts that sneak into the room. The men shift and mutter nervously, I rub dirt onto my face just as the others have done, and turn to look at our company.

Eru, we look like nothing more than armed soldiers wearing dirty clothes. There is no future in sneaking for any one of us. I begin to hope fervently that the storm worsens, if only to hide how poor we are at subterfuge.

"Go," I say to Hob.

There is nothing for it; we have started this and now we must follow through with the plan. He looks carefully at me – a soaked dwarf, barely in control of his breath – but I think there is something in my bearing that gives him confidence. Perhaps it is in the fact that I am starting to take these things in stride, because by my beard this is not even the most dangerous thing I have done in the last few months. I would reconsider my life choices if there was a single thing I could do about them.

I pause, because there is something wrong in the look he gives me, and I have a sinking thought that perhaps this is the first time Hob has seen real action since the war. I think he is an exceptionally brave man, but I also think he is broken in the same places that a lot of us are broken… some of us just never stopped running. Captain Hob has the ghost of cinders and the screams of battle in the look he gives me, and so I take a moment in the bustle and nervous shifting in the room to give him a broad grin, a laugh, and something in him loosens. He blinks, remembers where he is… shakes himself free of memories that he has done a lot to forget.

"A fine night for it lads, eh?" I ask to the wider audience, and the wind takes that moment to howl through the rafters like the nazgûl themselves. Someone laughs, someone else makes a comment and there is a ripple of laughter at that as well, and the tension is dissipated in a moment.

"Come on," Hob claps his hands, although it is a focussing of attention rather than sharp or abrupt. He recovers, just as well as any of us who lead men have learned to do; he does a fine pretence. "As pretty a picture as it is to imagine the elf getting soaked whilst we dally, we have a thing to do, and a cask of ale with our names on it once we are done."

The gathering warms further, the tension dissipates almost entirely, and when we open the doors again there are clapped shoulders and steady limbs that leave our ramshackle hideaway. They stride out into the fitful rain with confidence and I stand aside to let them pass. As they go, Hob takes a moment to say something to me, opens his mouth but nothing comes out. There is no need for it – we are both old soldiers – and I jostle him with one elbow as he grips my shoulder.

I am blinded for a moment by the driving rain, tugging my cloak back around my face and body. Eru it is going to become far worse, and there is a stuttering flicker of lightning that shows wide puddles turbulent with the deluge hammering at us. We are the only fools out in this, and perhaps it is a good thing, but I start to wonder at the sense in carrying out such a mission in weather such as this.

But it is done now, and all there is left is the doing of it, and so I take a breath and I follow our procession down through the city.

~{O}~

Like all cities with differing levels of military and non-military law enforcement, there are a number of chances for our plan to go awry as we pass through each gate.

Captain Hob has made the decision to allow few individuals the knowledge of what we do here tonight. He leads our column because he is well known and invites little scrutiny – which is well because he has all of our weapons in a cart, supposedly for carrying our bodies back to the city. Ren pats the nose of our drenched and miserable cart pony, because he is known as well, and so to the city guard, these are nothing more than prisoners bound for the gallows. It is a sign indeed of the quality of these men that they are solemn and serious; they check our papers and the shackles that hold those playing prisoners, but they do not mock or pass comment or treat us roughly.

They stand in the pouring rain even though they do not all need to be there, a silent witness to the passing of our column. Respectful, despite that these are men responsible for treason in their eyes. All could go quite badly should they realise they are inspecting the chains of their friends, but they do not. No matter how respectful, there are few that can look into the eyes of a condemned man.

We pass the final checkpoint and then we are out of the city, and although it should be a moment of relief it is not. This is the true test, this is when we discover whether our ruse has been successful.

The city walls rise to our right, pocked with the damage of war and so tall I cannot see the uppermost parts of it. We slog through mud, no longer protected by the city, the wind howling around us and the rain hammering in sheets. Thunder rolls hugely across a furious sky, I am utterly soaked, but there comes a moment in times such as this when it ceases to be horrible and is simply something to be endured.

I walk toward the rear of the procession, tripping on tussocks of slippery grass where I have been used to cobbles and flagstone, and although it was not my first choice, I am disguised as a prisoner. I am clearly shorter and stouter than any Whitecloak or city guard, and Hob thought perhaps we were pushing our credibility dressing me as a warden. Now that we are clear I fumble at my belt where the key to my shackles is hidden, because my fingers are so frozen and waterlogged I shall have a fine time trying to unlock them. I feel the first stirrings of nervousness.

As we pass the walls and approach the end of the city escarpments, I see Mindolluin rise like a black wall against the flicker of lightning. There were buildings here once, before the war – the first attempt at a settlement outside of the city walls, but it fell long before Osgiliath and there is barely anything of it any longer. We walk through the ghosts of buildings, merely walls and crumbled archways, a fallen well, something that might have been a forge. All of it passes by, phantoms of lives that once resided here – something that might have been a sign of hope, long ago. Families lived here, settlers made foundations of stone after long pilgrimages to reach this city, and all of it is in ruins. Strangled in ivy and briar, fallen into the mud.

The city walls become staggered here and ill repaired, many times patched. The broken stone crumbles down like a river where the city meets the mountain, itself heavily damaged: scarred by the attacks from war machines, huge boulders lying where they fell – where they should not be. The going becomes treacherous, dangerous, because I can barely see a damned thing and the ground is little but rubble and mud now.

I splash through rivers that pour down from the mountain, ankle deep, and there is a blinding flash of lightning that has my eyes searing and watering. The thunder that follows is almost instant, deafening. It cracks, pauses, booms so that the stone shakes… rolls outward with the weight of a glacier, and as it fades all I can hear is Ren trying to calm the pony, the strengthening of the rain. Eru, I did not think that it could get any heavier!

I start to wonder whether this is entirely safe.

I glance back at Hob but I can see nothing of him. I realise that I could not hear him right now even if he were to shout in my ear, and the thrill of fear that I feel now is not the anxiety that precedes battle – it is not nerves or adrenaline, but rather experience.

I have said before how I can often tell where Legolas is. Most of the time it is because I watch him so carefully – because he is so prone to doing dangerous things of late – or because he is so worried about something happening to me that he is all but treading upon my heels. But it is not simply that.

Our link is fading. I can no longer feel anything but the strongest of his emotions, not unless I put real effort into it, and his thoughts are his own now. I can catch ragged snatches of his heart, the majority of my knowledge of the elfling is because I know him so well to begin with, but some parts of it are lingering… slower to pass.

Legolas is like a ghost upon my consciousness, and I barely even notice it any longer. I know when he is there and when he is not, and if I wish to then I can garner a sense of direction if he is close enough. It is a comfort to me, and not simply because we are a co-dependent mess these days but because I can concentrate far better when I know he is safe, and when I know that he is keeping watch over me.

I strain through the mud and sluice water that runs ankle deep in places. I feel the wind tugging and heaving at me, the rain hammering upon my head and shoulders, and I nearly break my leg about a thousand times as I trip and stumble over rockslides, but as I come closer to the place where the mountain meets the Pelennor my sense of Legolas grows. My panic subsides and my heart grows calm. Thunder cracks and shatters the sky above me, it is wild and frightening, but there is a silver and green breath of summer in the heights above. There, just as he is always there.

I have only a moment to appreciate it before all goes ill.

~{O}~

We have reached the shadow of the gallows, strangely in-tact considering how everything else around us is in such ruin, and I am starting to worry… what are we meant to do once we get there? We can hardly hang one of our number simply to keep up appearances, although if Shutter were here I might reconsider such a thing. The decision is taken from me though.

I had expected it, mainly because I had hoped for it, but I had doubts… Eru I had doubts about whether this would work at all.

Captain Hob must have been a mass of tension this entire time, because when the attack comes he is ready for it. There is a whistle – soft, barely audible over the thunder of rain – but I have spent a lot of time with elves and I know the whistle of an arrow shot from a high tensile bow when I hear it. It clatters harmlessly into the rock but it is very close to Lirra – our pretend Lady Briar – and Hob is fast to action. It has barely registered on my senses before he calls the order – sharp and loud, for all of us to hear – and everything changes.

I fall into the ruins of what seems to be a family home, dragging the figures to both my fore and aft with me by the collar. As we fall unceremoniously into a heap, splash into mud and water, I see flashes of their faces in the lightning – Céorl and Mouse. Céorl skitters backward, his heels making poor purchase in the slurry, and the two of them fumble for a moment with the shackles at each other's wrists. I need no assistance – mine are already discarded – but I peer around the crumbled doorway to where Captain Hob still stands exposed. He is throwing the tarp back from the cart, dragging weapons free, throwing them to where his men lay hidden and I shout to him to take cover. He is insane!

He hears me and turns, lightning cutting his face as clear as day, and I see fear there – real fear for his men. They are hidden but unarmed, and I see arrow after arrow clatter around him. He flinches, ducks, moves with the rigidity of someone expecting harm at any moment, but he does not stop. I swear venomously and I run out into the rain to help him.

"Gimli advance," he shoves me as I reach him, fury upon his face, but I shove him right back and snarl in his face.

"These are _your_ men," I spit through the rain running freely down my face. "Lead them, I will equip them."

And he pauses only for a moment before he accepts. Hob is a fine captain, and as he disappears into the storm I continue throwing weaponry to every culvert and bolt-hole I can see. I feel a shiver at the back of my neck that I have felt a thousand times before – the knowledge that someone has a bow trained upon my back – but I must trust… I must trust that my friend is there. Every arrow that comes my way clatters shy, thuds into the solidity of the cart, frightens the pony or hisses past. I know that there are a hundred more that I will never know of, because I have the finest archer in the land watching over me. I reach forward, all but breaking my ribs on the edge of the cart, and I drag my axe free of the tarpaulin. We are all armed now.

Lightning cuts sharply, jaggedly, and I turn in time to see a man in black sprinting through the rain and mud toward me. He does not scream or shout, makes no sound at all, but I duck beneath his attack although he is far too fast to let me take advantage of it. He twists quickly, elven-like reflexes, his heel skimming water into a sheet as he turns and ducks beneath my guard, but by Eru, I have trained with the best.

I am the best warrior my people can offer, and I am not fool enough to refuse training from _laegrim_ or from Dúnedain or Rohirrim. Any time that I have not spent in some peril or danger I have spent in training: honing my skills, learning my disadvantages and how best to counter them.

I falter, pause in my advance, and it is enough to send him in a wide open sweep that I can easily duck beneath. I sink my fist into his ribs with the power of the very mountain, and as he gasps and flinches to one side, I pull the skinning knife in my boot free and cut his throat. He chokes and gurgles and gasps, and I shove him away from me with barely a thought.

As he hits the mud I pause for a moment to find my bearings, glance upward although I can see nothing of Legolas or his archers. I can see evidence of them though; many men fallen and laid low by the arrows from the heights, but although I see much to concern me, I have little time to do anything about it.

I am attacked again, another silent shadow, and I think they are watching us quite carefully because this man is wary of me. He does not rush me, he approaches upon the balls of his feet, limber and agile. He is armed with a short blade in each hand, a poor match for me. A man who favours short blades will fight closely and far beneath the reach of my axe, so I drop it to the ground. He rushes forward and I turn my shoulder beneath the thrust, feel the blade glance against the leather across my back, and I grab his wrist and arm as Legolas has taught me. I pull and twist and send him sailing over my shoulder into the sodden ground with a splash just as the lightning blinds me.

The man twists as he falls and rolls, comes back to his feet, but I am ready and kick like a horse – crunch my foot backward into his knee, sending it entirely the wrong way. He screams – the first sound he has made – collapsing into the mire, and I have time enough to scoop my axe from the mud and crack his head in two with the blade, silencing his screams forever.

I stop again, and I feel the faintest push of something against my mind. Legolas can see me. He is watching over me even now, when it must be agony to him to remain in the heights and not join the fray. He is solid and strong, he cuts through the wildness, and although it is oddness itself that this half-mad elf is the buttress against which I strengthen myself, Legolas is far more than anyone else realises – far more than they see upon the surface. I breathe easier as the madness recedes into clarity and I can _see_.

Our attackers. They are not simply soldiers, they are not normal men. Just as they were capable enough to capture Legolas, just as they were all but unbreakable upon their capture, just as their captain all but defeated the warrior Prince of Mirkwood… these men are exceptional. They are quick and silent, ghosts in the night. They do not fight the way that soldiers are trained to fight: part of a crowd, one of many, in formations and groups. Instead they work alone, fast and nimble, and Eru they know exactly what we are doing here!

We thought that we would have the element of surprise. We thought that we might lure them into a trap, but they do not act anything like men who have been taken unawares. They know exactly who we are and why we are here; we have been taken for fools, because they have allowed us to move from the safety of the city, and this is a rout… _butchery_. Hob's best men drawn out for the slaughter.

This whole thing has been orchestrated by the Lady Briar's brother, and she is suspiciously absent.

I look around for Captain Hob but I cannot tell one mud soaked _adan_ from the other. I see Lirra – who has torn her lovely dress to shreds so that she can fight – side by side with Liana, and the man fighting beside them is Larke. Ren is never too far from his friend, but other than that? I have no idea who is who… it is too dark, too chaotic, and I have stood here for far too long although it has likely only been moments.

I send a shrill whistle into the storm, I find my feet again and advance. I see Mouse – identifiable only by his small stature – and I cut the hamstrings of the man who has him nearly overwhelmed, moving onward. I send the whistle again, and I am staggered by the sight of a ghost sprinting toward me from the dark, only to have his skull pierced from behind by a green fletched arrow. He collapses, legs twitching in the mud, and finally I hear the whistle back.

Questioning, curious. I repeat the call to retreat, scour my brain and try to recall what ' _treachery'_ might sound like, but I am not completely fluent in the _laegrim_ hunting language. It is designed specifically to communicate over long distances in poor weather, but Mahal's beard it is impossible to remember the sound and lift and nuance of an entire language spoken in whistles!

In the end I fall back upon something a bit more dwarven, and I send the call for what can only be translated as 'just do as I tell you'. After a beat I hear his acknowledgement, which is useful only for the archers above us, who can go nowhere whilst they cover us.

I take a deep breath, let it out in what is most definitely not a sigh, and I plunge ahead into the battle. Battered by rain, deafened by it, but not so that I cannot hear the shouts and screams of frightened or injured men. I slog through the mud and help where I am needed, but I am looking for someone… searching for him as best I can, although every figure in the blackness looks the same to me. As I advance, I help those I come across, and I end up with a following of my own. Every one of Hob's men that I assist or pass in any way follow me, and they begin to draw their ranks together again.

No longer scattered or overwhelmed, they form a knot far more confident and deadly than they were when I came across them, and the ghosts fall back. They melt into the darkness, eyes that watch and assess, ready to take advantage of any weakness. Together we advance across the skidding mud, closer to the mountain, where the water by now is a waterfall. It tugs at my legs, and has started to shift rock and debris.

I find Captain Hob in combat with a tall man dressed in black – just as they are all dressed in black – and I would allow him his moment of victory but I have no time for it. I pick up a fair sized stone, heft it once or twice in my hand, then throw it so that it crunches right into the forehead of Hob's opponent. The captain turns in umbrage as his foe crumples to the ground, and I grab him by the cloak. Drag him closer.

"They know, Hob. They knew from the start."

I have to shout to be heard, but Hob deflates for a second beneath my words. He sluices water from his face but it is pointless, it runs from his brow and nose constantly, and he looks around at the shadowy forms of those he has already lost, silent and still upon the ground. At the cluster that remain, back to back and watching the shifting darkness. To where lightning flickers upon eyes and blades, milling out there where we cannot see.

"I know," he tells me, and I can barely hear him. "Get them out of here. Shutter has not arrived to guard the retreat, and I brought you into this."

"You did no such thing, you _fool_ ," I snap at him, because I have no time for the martyrdom of men. "They are your men, that is my elf, and I have spent more hours fighting at his side than I have known the lot of you combined. We shall both remain where we belong."

Hob is torn, I can tell, but then a small voice speaks at my side.

"I shall remain with Lord Gimli," it says, and I turn to see Mouse – dear Mouse – bright eyed and resolute. He is a fine soldier, this one: clever and quick and loyal.

"As will I," speaks Larke, and then Lirra steps forward although I am not surprised. She glances at Larke with a look that I have seen before… she will not leave his side, and their eyes lock for a long time. There is a lot there, a lot spoken between them, hot and fast and important.

Her sister grabs at her arm, ready to argue, but the taller of the two – her hair loose and plastered about her face – turns to her and hisses:

"You must find our Lady," she says, and I think it is the first time I have heard either of them speak before. "You must find her – there must be an explanation for this… there must."

"I will go with the Captain and the men," Ren promises, taking Liana by the arm, but it is gentle. He is leaving his partner – his closest friend, his brother – and she leaves her sister. She falls back, her eyes torn and worried, and I think she might have hit him had he been more forceful about it. Ren looks sickened to be leaving, but one of them has to be the catalyst, one of them has to get Hob moving, and the men are all looking to him.

There is a moment then, when we all come to accept what happens, although there are not many of us that are happy. I tuck my axe at my back, someone throws both Larke and Mouse a bow and a diminished quiver of arrows just as a whistle comes through the storm, twisted by the wind.

A question. _What occurs?_

 _Retreat_ , I reply, and there is silence for a while… long enough to have me agitated, because the men are all staring at me – no idea what we are saying to one another – and I have no idea what Legolas is doing.

When he calls next, he has moved. He is higher, tucked into a fold of the mountain where the water is running the fastest. It is the best vantage, but it is also the most dangerous path… of course it is the most dangerous path.

 _Keep pace, fivemark,_ he instructs. _Rear cover on fifth beat_ , _decreasing,_ and I know this. This is another _laegrim_ construct, one that I can only liken to the use of drums. Legolas will sound every five paces, and we must keep in line. We will retreat together and the rear guard will follow at a distance, but advance on the fifth call; reducing the gap between us with each repetition. I relay his instruction and get nothing but crossed eyes, so I try again and this time they look dubious. When Legolas' first whistle shrills into the night I shove them forward and they obey, the rest of us hold back, and I start to count for twenty five paces.

An eternity. An absolute eternity.

Larke, Lirra, Mouse and I wait patiently. We watch the column advance without us and they are swiftly lost in the deluge – a grey haze of hammering rain – but I can hear Legolas whistling. A beat, every five paces, short and sharp. It is such a short time, a moment in reality, but it feels like forever and I feel cold and exposed and frightened. It feels as though it is just the four of us surrounded by nothingness, blind and surrounded by men with blades and poor intent, and we are so poorly equipped for this. How has it gone so badly?!

 _Where is Shutter?_

I clear my throat, shake the water from my head, realise that I am the most experienced and that the others are looking to me for guidance. When did this happen? When did I become old or wise enough to be the dwarf in charge or anything at all?! I certainly would not leave Gimli Gloinson in charge of anything more important than supper, but such has my life become.

I shove all of my worry and fear down into my gut. It is still there – I can feel it – but I feel anger and determination all the stronger. Mouse is a clever and skilled lad, smart and quick. Larke is a captain in the making, if only someone might bring him out of the silence in his head. Lirra is approximately three times taller than I am and built like an Ent, but only if that Ent was a willow. I see something there between her and Larke, and by Eru I would be there when they are wed – if she consents to be wed, or perhaps if Larke does – and I am struck, not by the oddness of us being surrounded by silent assassins in the thundering rain, but that I am thinking of such things.

I laugh, and Larke looks at me oddly. I clap him upon the shoulder, sending up a splash of water. His back steams in the cold.

We are in the heart of a spectacular storm, our company is all but decimated, and every single one of us is starting to think that perhaps we have been betrayed. Our survivors continue into the furious night, and the four of us that remain stand exposed to a thousand hidden blades – or at least that is how it feels.

"Say, lads," I speak, and I feel each of them turn to me although my own gaze does not leave the darkness. "Can any of you carry a song?"

There is a long time where there is nothing but the drumming hiss of rain, the rolling grumble of the skies, the retreating sound of Legolas' whistles, but then Mouse speaks up.

"I am told I am fair enough, sir," he offers, and I grip his shoulder tightly.

"Then sing, my friend. I have marched in silence in the rain before, but I prefer that there be a tune."

And with that it is our turn to advance, and I push him gently forward as I move and I know that they all follow. It takes no time at all before I hear the lad begin to sing, and he is quite right – the lad can carry a tune indeed – but I am not sure I had expected anything as bawdy as that which comes from his mouth. It is a tavern song, lively and cheerful, and I am quite certain that – had I been the one singing it – the spirit of my dead mother would have appeared instantly and knocked me flat. I cannot help but laugh, and it is exactly what we need.

Mouse sings his drinking songs, I laugh at the worst of them, and we walk through the sodden night with hidden blades at our backs. We walk as though we are fearless.

TBC

* * *

 **So this has been a long time coming.**

 **In all honesty, I have not made huge headway with the block I've been experiencing, but I'm certainly starting to see the cracks and I'm very aware of how long it's been since I last posted. I've had a wonderful time, my life has been one enjoyable experience after the other, so although I haven't had a huge amount of time for writing, my time has not been wasted.**

 **Back to some sort of routine now though. I am only just writing the chapter after this one (although it's mostly written) so I can't imagine any more gaps in my posting quite as long as this one. I do find myself with about three half written oneshots though, and I was hoping to celebrate the anniversary of Steward with one of them but alas, it has not come to pass. If I finish any of them though, I will make sure I post them here in this fic's honour. Considering it was only meant to be about four chapters long, I think it's done fairly well! I'm really not capable of writing short fics, I should just accept this.**

 **This chapter isn't actually quite where I wanted it to be, but I've found it quite clunky in places and difficult to remedy. I can't keep playing with it because that tends to make things worse, or steals the fluidity out of the writing, so I'm just going to let it go. I hope it meets your standards, but let me know if it doesn't.**

 **Anyway, lovely to see you all, and I really hope to hear from you in the reviews. Who knows, if you're quick enough you might even get a reply tonight!**

 **Have a wonderful weekend :)**

 **MyselfOnly**


	17. Chapter 17

There is a point where I imagine that we might succeed, that we might escape this without further incident, because the assassins that surround us have left us unmolested for a while. We have progressed far enough that we have almost caught up with the majority of our company. I cannot see them, but I can hear the occasional voice or splash or curse, and we are almost to the edge of the fallen village, where the walls are low and the houses least damaged.

The mountain looms here, sways toward us and chokes our progress. An escarpment, as high as we can see: thick with moss and crumbling stone, running fast with water. It flows across the grass and mud, tugging at ankles and pouring into our boots, but my greatest concern is that we are hemmed in here.

We can either push on through the narrow gap between the low walls of the village and the cliffside, or move even further out into the darkness to skirt the whole thing. Both are dangerous, and we have slowed our pace considerably as we consider our options.

I hear Legolas whistle:

 _Enemy waits hidden. Thirty paces. Numbers greater, better vantage. Counsel against progression. Suggestion: into the heights. Faengolen argues. Advise._

I sigh, roll my eyes until it is actually painful, and I wet my lips to whistle back that _we are not blasted elves_. I change my mind; I shout it instead… quite loudly into the thundering rain. A pause and then:

 _Noted. Alternative plan requested. Dwarven minds superior._

I think Legolas is the only creature I have ever met who is able to convey sarcasm in a whistle, but then he has had a long time in which to hone his skill. I consider suggesting that he consult the winds, or perhaps my backside, but the others are watching me as though we are conducting some deep and important conversation, rather than squabbling, which is what we are doing. I think for a moment, and then I recall something that I have heard from them before. It is a _laegrim_ tactic, it works far better in woodland and with wood elves, but we do not have the numbers for brute force and I cannot think of anything else.

I call out a two-toned whistle, sharp at first and then flat at the end. It means 'dandelion seeds' of all the daft things, but he is quiet for a long time and then sends the sound back for his agreement. A small part of me had hoped that he might argue, because it is so risky… so very risky, but I think it is the only way that we will be successful. The formation is no formation at all; it is to scatter our forces to the winds. If our enemy waits clustered, ready to dominate us by funnelling us into a choke-point, then we will not be there… we will scatter and spread and vanish.

On one hand we might lose one or two of our number, but the most of us will reach safety. On the other, we will all be on our own.

I stand by my decision, take a breath, and try to look confident when I face the others. I tell them our plan, and I can tell that each of them wishes nothing more than to argue with me, but they are soldiers. They are frightened and soaking wet and they have seen their friends killed tonight. This has not gone at all how we had planned, not even slightly, but they look to me now for guidance and by Mahal and his Grace I hope that I have not just doomed them.

Legolas and I confer only briefly, short and sharp, and I prepare the three beneath my command… they tense and bunch and crouch, breathing heavily and shaking, and when Legolas' shrill whistle cuts through the air I shout a mighty bellow of command and they sprint into the blackness. They disperse like rats, forward and sideways and backward, and I launch myself into the thundering night with my heart in my throat and my stomach sick with worry. I run toward the glimmer of summer in my mind, just as I know he runs toward me, because I am an orc if we are to be separated again.

We might have led them into this, but by my ancestors and all their beards I will remain behind to ensure they survive the flight home.

~{O}~

Our enemy realises quickly what happens, know that they have been seen and their trap sprung early, and that we seek to scatter to the winds to evade them. They cluster tightly, too tightly, and I know in an instant that I have made the right decision. I know it when I see our flock part and wash away with the rain, disappear into the darkness like ghosts, whilst the army of assassins still rush toward us in a silent knot. They are clever and experienced and many of them pare away, chase after our hares, but Legolas is visible to me now and it is just he and I – as it so very often is. We will remain, we will try to give them time to run, because how can we do anything else?

The Prince of the Woodland Realm is bright in the darkness, starlight soaked and moon touched. His hair is plastered to his face, bone white and cut sharp in the black, and his eyes burn like ice. He sways and cuts and dances with his blades, fluid and light, and these last days have done him well; he is moving better than I have seen in a long time. I join him and it is as though we are whole, as though something fits into my side that I had not realised was missing.

I feel a push at the edge of my mind… gentle… and I let him in. I let Legolas show me the world through his eyes.

The night floods into me, bursts into my mind… so familiar and yet so different. The storm burns my blood like coal, makes my heart thrum and sing, scratches the inside of my skin… aches and _aches_ for me to run and race the scudding clouds that steam across the sky… it catches tight in my throat so that I could weep, but I shove it down as best I can. The night is lit like day to me now. The stars call, a bell-like song, and the lightning is playful and mighty rather than frightening. I hear the Song of Iluvatar, and although it is not the first time that I have heard it, it always feels as though it is… as though it is the _only_ thing. All that I should ever hear.

Legolas falters, steels himself, and I feel him push his walls into place… flimsy and new things that they are. I saw these walls once, deep in a dream, and they were gossamer fine but undefeated and strong. Now? Now they are lesser things, wavering and quaking, but they are sufficient. They blunt and dull the Song so that I can function. Enough to grant me strength that I could never experience without him, but with clarity.

I grin, I laugh, drunk with the sense of it… of being so connected and powerful, of being rooted to the earth as a dwarf but flying with the winds like an elf. I meet Legolas' gaze – just for a flicker of blue and just for a moment – but I can see the same thing in his eyes. Legolas must always feel like a leaf upon the wind, and I grant him power and solidity. He craves it, feeds upon it just as I do, and his mouth parts in a sliver of joyful madness just as mine does.

We turn back to back, and we face the storm.

~{O}~

When Legolas fights, it is as though the wind carries him. There is no other explanation for how he moves so easily, can turn so sharply and strike so swiftly. When I fight I can feel the whole world and all of its heart thrumming deep beneath me, and although I know nothing of how I look, I feel mighty and powerful; a part of the land that I walk upon and the Song that sings in the deep. When the two of us fight together… ai it is a glorious thing.

Legolas and I simply fit. We are jagged edges sometimes – grinding horribly – but when we let go… when it is nothing but heart and blood and instinct. When our blood roars through our veins and our minds are free of unnecessary things. When we are the clearest and most raw, the most ourselves, we complement one another perfectly. Stone and tree, grace and strength. I am the everlasting mountain with years that were numbered the day I was born, and Legolas is the changing wood that fades and dies and re-grows, but he will see every year, every season… every sunrise and sunset in between.

We fight side by side, back to back, moving and ebbing and flowing to where we are most needed. We know exactly where the other is – he will move and dance and send those silver blades of his singing, but he will duck exactly as my axe swings above his head to dispatch his opponent. I take risks that I never would before, I over-extend myself and am reckless because I know that those same silver blades will always be exactly where I need them to be.

The rain hammers, a rain like I have never known it. My shoulders ache from the barrage, my calves from trying to keep purchase upon the mud and running water, my thighs and hips from keeping a solid stance. The sound of it is constant, a physical presence, hissing and roaring and blinding me so that I am relying far too much on the ghost of elven sight that brushes my mind. Legolas must be in high blood indeed if he can do this again, because it has been months since he has been so able to gain access to my mind, to share the world with me. It is not the first time that we have done this, not the first and I hope it is not the last, and it is addictive, heady and wild. My awareness of the world around me is giddying, but I have learned a small measure of focus and I employ it as best I can.

The skies flicker and blind me, shudder and stutter, flash again and the thunder booms – shakes my very bones and heart – then rolls heavy and languorous almost instantly. The storm is right above us, and it is declared by a hastening of the deluge so that I can hear it tapping and hammering against the head of my axe. Beating upon my back and shoulders, the flood waters gushing now against my shins. My wrist and elbow ache from the impact of my weapon upon flesh, my shoulders and back from controlling a weapon with such an uneven weight distribution, and I am starting to grow weary.

No matter our mastery and skill, no matter how Legolas and I fight well together, there is no skill in all of the lands that can compensate against numbers this way. I think perhaps our opponents grow frustrated, angry, because we are the only ones left to vent their rage upon and so they pour forth like rats from a hole. So many, so very many of them, and they are well trained and skilled and the elfling and I are run ragged keeping track. We are hemmed in, pinned back to back, and I start to feel the fervour of battle shrink back and be replaced by a thrill of fear.

Eru, I am not entirely sure we are going to survive this.

After all that we have encountered, all that we have survived, all that we have done and seen and experienced together I think perhaps we are going to meet our end here. Beneath a furious sky and at the mercy of an army of assassins, far from our friends and with not a damned thing to show for it. This is not a worthy end for us!

I roar my anger at the next man I come upon, because this is not _right_ … it is not right at all! By Mahal we have done so much, we have provided such service to these lands, I will not be cut down for the sake of a coup where the necromancer and the Shadow never succeeded.

I feel my blade hit flesh, I feel it reverberate through my arm and into my shoulder, I hear the wet sound of a man's last breath… but it is not all I hear. I pause, and it is long enough to have Legolas' elbow quite firmly in my ribs and a lightning blue glance shot my way. I pause, blink rain from my eye, and I shudder a breath.

"Legolas!" I hiss, and I feel him tense at my back. He turns to me and his face is blood spattered but white, marble and cruel, his eyes burning like fire. His lip is lifted into a snarl, and he looks like his father but I do not fear him… I cannot fear him. He looks at me with trust, with questioning, and he sees the urgency in what I return to him. "The mountain!"

The elfling knows me, almost as well as I know him, and it is all that I have to say. He asks no further questions and instead he simply grabs me by the jerkin and yanks me away from the stone escarpment that looms to our side. He fights off our combatants but it is half-hearted and perfunctory, nothing more than a passage away, but it is too late. I slap his hand away and fist my own hand into the sodden fabric at his shoulder, we drag one another away from the mountainside, but it is too late. I have had warning, but not enough.

The first rumbles I feel in my blood, my heart, my gut. I feel them in every part of the fabric of my being, but quickly upon the heels of that comes the sound. A crack, sharp and huge, felt in my teeth and chest and then followed by a soft noise that is almost buried by the rain, but only just. The clattering of stone and rock drowns it out almost instantly, the gush of liquid mud that throws and then tugs at my ankles precedes what is to come. Legolas and I run as fast as we can as the mountain severs and splits, falls to the storm… as the hillside slides with the fury of Mahal drawn deep, pulling the mountain home to the depths.

I hear the first cries as our enemy realises what it is that we flee from, what rushes upon our heels. Debris and fallen wood, loose stone and flotsam push at our legs as the floodwaters run ahead of the landslide. It is a slog, it is not a run at all, and I feel my boots sinking heavily into the slurry of mud that the ground has quickly become. Legolas tugs me onward so that I am nearly tripping and falling, I do not think that I would be able to keep my footing were he not here to keep me upright, and we continue as best we can. But we are not going to be fast enough. I know it as well as I know that the sun will rise.

I see something, I take a split second to weigh my decision… a mere heartbeat but it feels like an eternity, because I am risking both our lives on this. We run past the ruin of the smithy that I saw earlier, the angle of the building is perfect to take the brunt of the deluge, but I do not know if it is strong enough or deep enough. It hardly matters; we either take our chances here, or are buried beneath the falling rock.

I yank Legolas to a halt, and he trusts me… bless his pointy ears he trusts me enough to stop. I have a moment to see his face turned behind us, pale and drawn and frightened, his wide eyes seeing far more of what heads toward us than mine do. I tear my gaze away, lay my hands upon the foundation of the ruin, and I push with my heart, with all of my might as fast as I can. I read the stone with brute strength, no finesse in it at all, but I have no time to do this properly. What I feel is just enough – eru I hope it is enough – and I grab at Legolas and yank him into the sheltered lee of the building.

We crouch there, clinging to one another like lost children, and I can feel him hot and shaking against me. A sparrow heart hammering in his chest, every cord and sinew of him as tight as a bowstring, because elves do not do well with falling mountains. Not at all.

It is a moment. Just a moment of hushing rain, our gasping breaths so loud now that we have stopped, Legolas' grip painful upon my arm. A slow build of thunder again, thankfully further away this time, but I know… I know what is coming. The mountain has cracked, sheered away, and there is no possible way that we have run far enough… could ever run fast enough to outrace it. There is silence, just for a moment, and then the sky falls down around my ears.

A deafening roar, the cracking of stone, the cries of terrified men, and then there is nothing. Nothing at all.

~{O}~

Not a lot of things frighten Legolas. Not even when they should.

He fears enclosed spaces, most wood elves do, and he has never been particularly fond of deep waters although he manages it well enough. He fears wasps although not many people are aware of it. I am fairly certain that I would be declared an enemy of Lasgalen and possibly even stabbed in the leg should I allow that particular snippet of information to become widely known. I do not think less of him for it; I am not that fond of earwigs if I am honest with myself, but in short… there is very little that Legolas fears. Nothing real, in any case. Nothing sensible.

When I awake it is to noise, far too much noise, and none of it makes sense. It takes me far too long to sort through my mind, to form thought and make sense of the things I am experiencing, but I gradually find clarity. I am cold, I am lying on something extremely hard and there is something stabbing into my ribcage. The noise that I can hear is rainfall, but it is furious and unlike anything I have heard in a long time. It hammers, hisses, and there is a grumbling in the skies that overshadow everything; huge and heavy and angry. I hurt, I am bruised in every part of me, but I bring a hand up to my face and I can definitely feel that my head is still attached to my shoulders. I test my limbs, muscle by muscle, and find that nothing is about to drop off although it is certainly uncomfortable.

I hear something though, and it is this that has woken me; this that has brought me back from the soft blackness and into the rain. I have just had a mountain fall upon me, and still it is Legolas that brings me back.

"Get away from him," he snarls. It is raw and full of the promise of violence, but I cannot see a damned thing. It is so dark out here, the moon and stars shadowed by the storm, and despite that I am a dwarf, and despite that I can still feel the glimmer of Legolas' enhanced sight granting me light where there was none before, we are not both in the same place. I am buried, I realise. I am still in the forge, and my legs and chest are trapped in rubble and mud – whatever Legolas is facing, he is outside, and he is on his own.

I begin to struggle against the landslide that traps me, and I bite back a cry of pain – ai everything hurts so much! My head thrums and bangs, my back hurts terribly, something is awry in my arm, but the elfling is on his own and he thinks me hurt. Legolas does not fear much, but he has never thought particularly clearly when it comes to the safety of his friends. I have no doubt that he would protect my life at the risk of his own, and he would lose his mind entirely if I were to die here.

"Legolas!" I call to him, "do nothing foolish, I live!"

I continue to fight and struggle, and I am almost free. There is a huge slab that has my leg pinned – part of the building we sheltered within – and although it is uninjured, it is quite thoroughly stuck. I see Legolas now, backing across uneven ground until I can see him around the edge of the stone wall. He is a glimmer of moonlight all by himself, that strange nimbus of the elves lighting him brightly for all to see, and he navigates the landslide as though it is nothing but a stone corridor. There is barely anything to step upon, it is jagged stone and fallen masonry, huge blocks and smaller boulders, a slurry of mud and water rilling through the gaps. He walks easily, but I am unsure how. He is in a bit of a state himself, and I only just got him recently fixed.

There is a slice across his cheek that has cut almost to the bone, and blood runs freely in the pouring rain. He is sheltering one arm to his side, and I cannot tell if it is his arm or his ribs that ail him but as I watch he straightens and corrects his stance. If there was anything else wrong I would not know now in any case, he is hiding any injury the way he always does, allowing his enemy no glimpse of his hurts. He is very definitely guarding me from someone, but I cannot tell who is out there. He stands with his blades ready, every part of him loose and prepared, fluid and dangerous.

He backs up carefully, peering into the shelter of the forge as though he does not believe me that I live… checking the facts for himself. I see the moment that he accepts I am not simply shouting at him from beyond the grave, and I see something drop away from his shoulders… something the weight of the mountain itself. I see him relax and calm, centre and focus.

"Why do you still lie about?" he hisses from the side of his mouth, returning his gaze forward, toward our hidden visitor. "Get up!"

"Oh aye," I snap, suddenly annoyed. "I am simply so comfortable, Legolas. My leg is trapped, you fool!"

A blue gaze flickers toward me, takes in everything in a glance and returns to the fore. I am still tugging and pulling, heaving and swearing.

"Lever?" he asks.

"Aye. Axe if you can find it. We are not alone?"

He is silent a while, casts his glance again over the shelter of the forge but it is not searching – he has already found my axe. It lies upon the ground by the door, carefully stowed, and he backs up carefully, hooks his foot beneath the haft and flips it in my direction. I know for a fact that he had Idhren learned to do that as boys – kicking sticks is a _laegrim_ game – and I am suddenly glad that they have odd customs. I would have flipped that right into my own forehead, or sent it spinning into the night, but instead my axe wobbles though the air – oddly weighted and cumbersome – but it lands close enough.

"Oren," he tells me finally, and I swear again. I set about trying to lever the slab of rock just enough to pull my leg free, and Legolas no longer has time to help me. There is a flash of movement, Legolas melts away, and I hear the sound of blade meeting blade but I can no longer see anything. They have moved from my field of vision, I am missing everything, and Legolas is hurt and on his own. I wrestle with the stone that holds me pinned to the ground, I slice my hand upon the blade of my axe, and I shout angrily as nothing shifts at all.

I am completely trapped.

~{O}~

It feels as though I am left an eternity on my own.

I can no longer hear Legolas, and he does not respond to me calling his name. Our enhanced link has been severed – the gift the elfling gave to me at the start of this fight far too difficult to maintain when he is fighting someone like Oren – but the link granted by the Shadow is still strong, even if it is a glimmer of what it once was. I know that he is still alive, I know roughly what direction he is in, and I know that he is in one of his ice cold and focussed minds. That is well… he has kept his madness at bay thus far, but it does not make me feel any better about him being out there alone.

I have been fighting with this cursed hunk of stone for so long that my hands are shredded by the blade, blistered and bruised. I cannot get enough purchase upon it – I can jam the haft of my axe beneath the lip of the rock but I cannot sit up far enough to lever it, I am too close and too low, and after what feels like an utter eternity I change my approach. I can get one hand beneath the stone slab, just the one, and although it skins my arm and wrist almost instantly I start to dig at the looser mud beneath my leg. It has started to go numb, but I can move it slightly within the confines of its prison and I know that I simply need to get some damned movement freed up.

I scrabble and dig, pelted by rain and desperately afraid for my friend, and I have no real time for other thoughts but they sneak upon me in any case.

Where are the others? Did they escape? Where are the rest of the mysterious assassins, because there were so many of them I am unsure that the landslide caught them all. It was a blessing – a gift from Mahal – because the mountain protected the city from these men far better than we did, but I doubt they are all dead. There must be a few still alive. There must. I dig and scrabble, loosening the mud, but although I can move my leg far better now, it is still pinned at the thigh. I have done barely anything at all, I am still stuck, and I shout again into the rain in sheer frustration.

Damn it all! Damn and curse it, this is utterly ridiculous! I do not think I have ever been this frustrated in my life, never felt so helpless and alone. I shout again, drawn out and furious and a bit childish if I am honest with myself, but then I quickly shut my mouth. I strain to listen, because… _there!_ I am not mistaken!

 _"_ _Here!"_ I shout, bellowing into the thundering rain and grabbing a fair sized rock to hammer against the wall. It clacks sharply, ringing out against the sound of the retreating storm, and I shout like a madman. "Here! Over here, curse you! Inside the forge!"

There is more shouting from outside, from the utter mess left behind by fallen mountain, and then there is the clatter of loose stone and shifting rock right outside… and then they are here. I flop back against the mud and stone and blink up into the rain in relief, and my new visitors fall around me as though I have fainted dead away.

"Gimli! Friend Gimli do you live?"

My face is patted a trifle roughly, if I am honest, and when I raise my head it is to scowl at Ren. Dear Ren, his face filthy and bloodied and concerned. I point at the offending slab of rock that has me so useless, and then there are many sets of hands… many men all working to free me. It takes only a few strained moments – annoyingly – and then Ren heaves me to my feet. I wobble, stagger, feel a rush of giddiness that he supports me through and then he drags me into a tight embrace.

"We thought you dead," he tells me earnestly. "You and Prince Legolas both. We saw the mountain fall, but we were too far to do anything. We came back as soon as we were able; it is treacherous and has not settled. Did you do this?"

"Did I collapse a mountain?" I ask in surprise. "No, of course I cannot collapse mountains! Well … I have collapsed one mountain before now. And I have been in a few that have collapsed. This was simply the rain and storm and a fault in the stone. Who is here? Are all alive?"

His face falls, goes stony pale.

"I do not know," he admits. "As I say, when the mountain fell, many of us turned back to find you and we met along the way, but I do not know who was lost. We have reinforcements though, which was quite the surprise."

I blink at him questioningly, try my hand at walking unaided, but my leg is a roaring tumult of burning and firing nerves as the blood returns to where it should be. I hurt, and I know I will stiffen to a stone later, but I can manage for now. I hop, limp; gingerly test my weight. I feel the bone deep bruise in my thigh promise repercussions later, but I can manage for now. Reinforcements? From where?

I glimpse over at the edge of the broken building, and I see Shutter leaning against it as though we do nothing but take in the sights. His hood is pulled low over his face, but I can still see it – that grin of his, that insouciant smirk.

I slip naturally into my own tongue. I often make fun of Legolas for slipping into his native tongue when he is irked, it is natural for him – he has not been a part of this world long enough for the Common Tongue to become natural – but I find myself doing the same thing now. My own tongue is better for insults, and they flow naturally. I limp toward him and grab him by the jerkin, shake him roughly, and although he prises my hands away he is not unkind about it.

"Where have you been?" I demand furiously. "This has been nothing but a rout, an utter disaster! They knew exactly where we would be, exactly what we did… they knew, Shutter. How did they know?"

"I know nothing of how," he tells me, "I know only that it happens."

"Legolas is out there somewhere fighting Oren again," I gesture wildly in the vague direction that I know Legolas to be. I can still feel him, feel his weariness and frustration, and I can feel his mind starting to slip. It is making me extremely agitated.

"You do not understand, Master Gimli," he tells me, and his voice is weary and flat. His face falls, the mask slipping away entirely, and I think it is the surprise of it that quenches my anger so quickly. I silence, still, and let him speak. "It is not just here. They are in the city, they are in the second circle. The City Guards do all they can but there is fighting in the streets, Minas Tirith is under attack. The second circle has defences, men who will fight, and the King has sent his best men but it is like fighting an infestation of rats! I could not find her… I came here once I realised, but I could not find Briar. She can look after herself, but…" he trails off, and my anger is gone in a second. I know that look. I know it well.

I do not wish to, but I remove my hand from where it is twisted in his cloak and smooth it out, pat him carefully. It is the best I can do – the movement understanding and forgiving – but it is all I can give him. He looks so afraid, so worried, and his words worm their way into my chest and sit there cold and hard. Minas Tirith as well? It is not simply here – if anything we are out of the way when we should be helping the city.

"Return to Minas Tirith," I tell him carefully.

"I go nowhere," he shakes his head. "Ren can return. I have gathered men to follow him, but I remain here."

I peer at him, narrow my eyes, and I know I will not be able to change his mind. Out of the two, I would probably prefer to have Ren at my side, but Shutter – for all that I do not like him – is a more than able opponent. He does not wish to be here, but I feel a grudging moment of respect that he intends to remain.

"Fine," I concede, because I am not foolish enough to waste time in argument. I turn to Ren. "Take these men. You must go to the palace, because the King must be protected over everything."

"They are not here for the King," Ren objects, and I open my mouth but it is Shutter that speaks.

"They are here for the second circle and for Briar, but the circle is protected. There is no one more important than our King."

Ren looks unsure. He is afraid – not of battle but for the safety of his friends; for Larke and Captain Hob, and all the others that are missing. The three of us are all twisted by worry for our friends, but it is certainly not the first nor the last time this will happen. We are all seasoned in battle, we have all lost those we love, and we all worry because we know the pain of that loss. We will fight through regardless.

"It is unlikely that Legolas needs our help," I muse, almost to myself, "but he was hurt in the landslide. If he cannot beat Oren, then we must be there to ensure that man gets no further than the foothills of the city. He cannot find entrance there."

Shutter nods his agreement, Ren finally accepts what we say, and I spend a moment massaging my thigh. I knead the last of the pins and needles from my leg, feel the deep and angry throb of what is going to be a spectacular bruise, and I know that if I survive the night, this leg is going to be useless for days. My head hurts, I feel dizzy, something is jabbing and shifting in my rib cage, but dwarves were built sturdy. Mahal made us from the mountain, we slept beneath the earth and became as stone, and even now we are solid and firm. I am well enough to continue.

Ren turns, goes as if to leave but pauses and glances back. Rainwater drips from his nose and chin, there is a florid bruise over the better part of his right jaw and he looks exhausted, but he locks his eyes with mine and nods just the once. It is an acknowledgement, and it cannot be translated into words. I return it, and then he is gone.

It is just Shutter and I left.

~{O}~

I would love nothing more than to run. To push my speed to its limits and race across the ground to where I know Legolas is, but I cannot. It is treacherous, slippery and littered with broken stone. If I am not slogging through loose mud then I am tripping over rubble, clambering over giant slabs of mountain, falling into holes, and I would have broken my ankle a thousand times over if it were not for sheer dumb luck. Shutter and I try as best we can at speed, but we are hobbled by the terrain and although we are slow, the both of us are breathing heavily and moving sluggishly by the time we reach the foot of the mountain. We are both exhausted.

It is not how it was any longer. Not a mountain. It is a slope, the scar of the landslide pitted and hulking and frightening, and of all the things in the world to be thinking right now I realise that the storm is abating. The rain is lessening, and I have not heard the thunder in quite some time. Shutter and I stand at the foot of Mindolluin, our eyes scanning the field of destruction as best we can in the dark and without elven eyes, but I have an advantage. I can feel Legolas, somewhere up there and to the right, and I start to pick my way through the destruction. I climb and slip and clamber, until I hear a voice ring out:

"Gimli stay as you are!" Legolas calls, and I freeze. I can hear now the faintest sound of shifting feet, of metal meeting metal, quick and careful and light. I pause, squint, and I can just about see them; Legolas and Oren, fighting, although it is no fight I have ever experienced. It is a dance, they ghost across the fallen mountainside as though they are blossoms upon the wind, and I see the silver glint of blades as they catch the meagre light. I can barely capture them, barely see them, and I pause for a moment.

What help do I really think I can be here?

I am sometimes complacent, sometimes dismissive of Legolas and the skill he has, but I have never truly believed my own words. I might belittle him and sometimes I am far too blasé about his ability, but seeing it is different. He is another being, a thousand levels above where I will ever be, and suddenly I am far too aware of how cumbersome and clumsy I am. Why am I here? What did I hope to achieve?

Shutter pulls at my arm, gentle and careful, and I grant him my full attention. I can only just see him in the darkness; a cut of paleness and a glint of green eyes.

"He will not listen to me," I tell him. "Not right now. Elves… they can lose themselves. He could beat Oren perhaps, I do not know, not any longer."

There is too much at stake here. Too much to allow for Legolas' pride, too much to let him continue this fight to his own satisfaction. If he cannot win this fight, then Shutter and I will not be enough to beat him. Not in a hundred years.

"You have never said," he murmurs to me, serious and careful. "You never have, and I do not expect you to, but you are linked with the Prince?"

I pause for a second, consider lying, but cast it away quickly. I nod instead.

"The tale is a long one," I admit quietly. "But yes. We are linked."

"In the meeting with Briar, when he attacked the serving lad," he reminds me, and pulls a bow from where it is secured across his shoulders. There is a quiver at his back, and although there are not many arrows remaining, there are enough. I consider his words, I know exactly what he is suggesting, but I am dubious.

"You can make the shot?" I ask, unsure. He takes a deep breath, releases it.

"I can only try," he shrugs. I relent.

It is not a terrible idea.

We climb the cluttered ruins of Mindolluin, heaving over boulders and thick mud, but the rain has lessened. It is barely a pattering now, little more than a spring rain, but the wind picks up and sends a chill into my sodden bones. I shiver, but all I can think of is the battle that Legolas endures right now.

I can feel him in my head as Shutter and I try to reach them. He is losing his temper, becoming frustrated, and I know that he is hurt – I can feel the burn of his wounds like a ghost upon my skin, as though I bear them just as he does, and I steer Shutter in the correct direction as Legolas battles across the screed of fallen stone and mud. We climb and clamber in silence, it takes an utter eternity, but eventually we are close enough to see them properly.

Oren is just as he was the first time that I saw him; cloaked and hooded, a tattered mystery whose face I cannot see beneath the mask he wears. Legolas is exposed and raw in woodland green, his hair dripping and twisted about his face, pinked by the blood running from the injury to his face. The two of them dance as though the landslide is nothing to them, fast and nasty and lethal, slashing and weaving, hurting one another. Legolas has a few new injuries – an ugly and horrible wound to his shoulder, his midriff running with blood – but Oren is faring little better. They jump lightly from boulder to boulder, across dangerous muds and through splashing rivers of rain. They twist and duck, dance and play, all of the while their blades glinting.

They have been at this for a very long time.

Shutter looks at me, readies his bow and breathes. He nods and I take my own breath, because I am not sure I can remember how to do this. Not sure that I wish to do this.

I do it anyway.

I grab at Legolas' mind and I _yank_.

It hurts. The first time that I did this I was angry, I was furious, and so I did not feel it. This time I know exactly what I am doing, and when I hook my mind into Legolas' and hurt him intentionally I certainly bear the brunt of it. Legolas cries out, buckles, grabs at his head with fisted hands and drops to his knees. The sound he makes is dreadful, the fact that he makes any sound at all is all I need to know that I have hurt him terribly, but I do not stop. It hurts me, my nose is streaming with a warm wetness that I know to be blood, but I set my teeth and clench my fists and I do not let go. I cannot let go.

The first time that I did this it was brief. It was by accident, it was alarming and frightening, but this time... this time I genuinely struggle to stop. Legolas lets out the strangest sound; wet and ragged and final, and Shutter kicks me.

"Gimli _stop_ ," he hisses. He shoulders me to one side, shoves me so I am sent sprawling and gives me a horrified look, but then his attention in entire on his aim.

I shake myself free, I realise what I have done, and I am disgusted and sickened. I glance at the elfling, crumpled and twisted and curled around the pain I have forced upon him, and I gag. I cannot wrest my eyes from him, and each breath sounds ragged in my ears, endless and drawn out. I see Shutter out of the corner of my eye, I am aware of him but I cannot focus on him. I barely see him in truth, I have eyes only for what I have done…

 _…_ _eru I have done it again! ..._

After the passing of moments or perhaps an eternity, Shutter loosens his bow. He releases with a movement I cannot see, but the arrow he sends forth is straight and true.

It would have landed, even I can see that in the dimness of the storm, but although Legolas is curled into a heaving knot of pain there is a flash of silver and a clatter of wood upon stone. The elfling knocks the arrow from the very air, twists upon the mud and rock where he crouches and bares his teeth at me. Blood streams from his nose and stains his bared teeth; he is furious, seething.

He hisses something at me, and although the elven language is a beautiful one, sometimes it can sound very different. In the right mouth it can be twisted into something nasty and curling and unkind, and what he says to me… it does not bear repeating. He tells me under no uncertain terms that I am to remain as I am and come no closer. The consequences are unspoken, but I hear them in any case, and when I bolster myself again to lay him low the bolt of pain that I send him is stopped, twisted, and sent back in my direction.

Eru… _eru_ it is like my mind catches fire!

Legolas shows again that our link is not simply in one direction, it goes both ways, and he turns my attack back against me. I deserve it, in a way, because I should not be using such a thing against him. He has told me I should, encouraged it, but that was in a very specific set of circumstances. Legolas has not lost his mind, not gone mad, he is not threatening anyone who cannot manage themselves. I am using this weapon I have against him for my own convenience, and by Mahal he reminds me of this.

Legolas is an ancient prince of a warrior people. He will not be schooled by a child such as I am, he will not let me hurt him if he does not wish it, and in a way I am thankful. Through the blinding pain he sends me – that drops me to one knee, that halts the breath in my lungs and all thought in my mind – he reminds me of what he is. Reminds me that he could have stopped anything I have done prior to now, that I cannot be blamed or feel guilt for something that he has been able to stop.

I let go of him, release him, and he lets me go as well. Our minds are knotted and tangled as briars, just as sharp and jagged, and we tear them free roughly. I gasp and heave, my palms flat against the freezing wetness of the ground, and a part of me recognises that Shutter has his hand tentatively against my shoulder in comfort. I gag, wipe my mouth with a sodden sleeve and peer up through my dripping hair at where Legolas staggers back to his feet.

I am to stay out of this fight.

TBC

* * *

 **Hey, check me out posting a bit closer to my old schedule! I figured I owed you all a faster update this time, although chapter 18 might be a bit slower. It's almost finished, I plan on starting chapter 19 tonight, but the fic is about to move into its final arc - I like to leave myself a bit of space to change things around if I want to. Some of you might know from PM conversations that I have a very real habit of changing my mind on the direction of a story at very short notice. I point you in the direction of The Silence in the Song as a VERY good example of this. That thing was meant to be a fraction of the length, and escalated quite considerably from where it was originally meant to go!**

 **The writers block is very definitely over, for now. This is the chapter that I've been agonising over for months; poor Legolas and Gimli have been stood in this storm getting soaked probably since the end of March. I could just imagine them huffing and tapping their fingers, shifting from foot to foot, looking at me expectantly whilst I sat here scream-crying 'I don't know words! I cannot do writing! I am sorry!' at my computer screen.**

 **I have an overactive imagination, perhaps.**

 **Anyway, chapter 18 isn't finishing itself so I must dash. I must apologise to anyone who reviewed the last chapter because I was absolutely rubbish in replying. I normally try to reply to everyone within a week, but I failed in this. Please rest assured that I appreciated every single one of them, and I will try to do better this time around!**

 **Have a great weekend :)**

 **MyselfOnly**


	18. Chapter 18

There is a shifting, somewhere deep beneath my feet, and I know that I am the only one that has felt it. I know it with every part of me that is different and dwarven, something I have come to terms with, but it is still odd to feel that thrill and tug… to feel it and know no one else has.

Legolas draws himself back upright, and in Oren's defence he has allowed this moment of weakness and has not taken advantage of it. He circles, spins one blade lazily, eyes the elfling as though he is something fascinating and burning-bright, because that is what he is. I do not think that Oren has ever met an adversary that can match him so closely… I do not think that Legolas has either. I think that the two of them – in their own twisted way – might be enjoying this.

The rain patters harmlessly now, soft against skin so used to the deluge we have endured all night, and Shutter looks at me. I think there might be concern there, but I am unsure; I hold my hand up as I stagger back to my feet and I mean for it to say that I am well, although I know not how convincing I might be. As Legolas drags his hair from his eyes with bloodied hands and grins, madness into the rain, I glance at the thief of the second circle and I think there is something in my face that he recognises.

How can I do anything here? What use am I, and what should I do? This is utter insanity. Shutter simply cants his head lightly and I read much in that moment: he urges forbearance, patience, understanding, and a day ago it would have me furious – how can he advise me anything at all when it comes to dealing with this particular elf? – but now I start to think that he might understand better than I realise.

Legolas stretches his neck, shifts lightly upon the balls of his feet, tilts his face to the rain and all of the while his eyes follow Oren. They are pale, focussed and frightening, and when the two of them attack one another again it is the way a flock knows when to dive and sweep and curb. They simply move.

Legolas wings high and Oren ducks, spins to bring his blades toward the elfling's unprotected back but Legolas moves with him, curls around and away. Oren does some movement – I cannot truly follow it – but his whole body bucks and changes direction upon a hair, sweeps his leg to knock my friend from his feet but Legolas dodges it simply. He brings his blades down only for them to be met; twisted, turned away… all of this in the time it takes for me to get my feet back beneath me.

Legolas is hurt, I feel his madness biting upon the edge of my mind like the stinging of an insect or a burn from a fire. He is a tumult of emotion that shows not even slightly in his face or bearing, but this is not necessarily a bad thing; Legolas might be more than a little bit mad these days, but he has been this way most of the days he has lived. It is simply closer to the surface now. I am starting to think that this madness aids him; that he feeds from the fire it gives him. That his bravery comes from this fathomless well granted to him by the storms and the call of the wood, the song of Iluvatar. I do not think it is really madness at all, but perhaps it is simply how he is meant to be.

Oren begins to tire; begins to falter; begins to make mistakes. Legolas is simply growing in his power – because he has fought for so long and through such terrible things, I think weariness and desperation are the places where he finds his strength.

The elfling gains ground. If anything, I would say he is fighting better now than when he was fresh: wilder and less refined, but this is better, I think. The rain drips from his hair, and the receding storm is still just as loud in his ears, just as furious and wild. The scent of the rain and blood, of pain and fear… they goad him into those reserves of strength that he holds deep inside his fëa and by Mahal… the way he can fight when he is at the edge of his strength! Legolas fights no better than when he has little left to give.

He hammers at Oren, ducks and spins and slashes, advances constantly. He drives him back, overwhelms him, and it is done… I know that it is done. Oren is staggering now, bleeding and limping, and I watch as his leg folds beneath him. He crumples but still he tries, still holds his blades against the elven tirade, but he has lost. He is crumpled upon the mud and shattered stone, Legolas stands above him victorious, and I think I take the first breath in an age.

I was expecting Legolas to simply kill him. To end his days, dispatch him as I have seen him dispatch so many, but he does not. He pauses, falters, looks upon the assassin beaten and gasping in the water and mud of the mountain, and he stops. The cold recedes from his eyes just for a moment, and he blinks.

He does not wish to kill him.

The silence lasts for too long, too long for it to be mistaken for anything other than what it is. Legolas is sparing him, granting mercy where none would have been granted if their positions were reversed, and he is an _utter idiot!_ I see the moment that Oren realises it as well, see a glint in his eye that is nothing but confusion and uncertainty, but then my attention is torn away.

I feel the tremor again. I sink back upon my haunches, plant my hands into the unsettled ground and send my mind deep. I read the new landscape, delve with the care I had no time for the last time I did this, and I feel the mountain spread into my mind like a storm cloud. It is words upon a page to me, and I feel panic slam into my chest.

We do not have the time I thought we might.

"Legolas!" I call. "Legolas it is not stable!"

I grab Shutter and I yank him into the lee of a huge stone that juts from the rubble, rooted deep and strong. He sprawls and looks at me oddly, but he trusts me in this over anything else. I have no time, because the mountain grants little warning once the lace-fine threads that hold it together are severed, and I shout out to Legolas again. I tell him to anchor himself, but my words are drowned out by another bone deep crack, and I feel my stomach rise into my throat as the land lurches.

The land to my right breaks, moves and sloughs downward. Severed, broken free, it shifts and twists beneath us and I feel myself grabbed and pulled backward. Once again I leave Legolas to the mercy of the mountain and I bite back curses as I jam myself against the shelter of the stone. My feet brace into the ground, I push myself as far back as I can, and I am pelted by loose rock as it rushes past. I feel the sting of it against bare skin, feel the bruising impact as the larger rocks hit against my flesh, and I hear Shutter yelp once as he is pummelled by the same thing.

I cannot stay here though, I cannot leave the elfling alone again, and the second I feel the mountain calm and exhaust the best of its fury I scramble past Shutter. He shouts in alarm as I barge past, skid and skitter on the sliding ground and haul myself up onto the huge stone we have just sheltered beneath. The landslide was not as dramatic this time, not as furious or damaging, but it has still cut a further section away from the hillside. Some lies still, some still moves, but almost all of the loose stone and soil has shifted. What is left is the skeleton of the mountainside; rough and jagged, but far more stable.

Once I know that it is safe – in actual fact I simply guess, and make little effort at it – I jump free from the stone and wince as my hurt leg takes the impact and my ribs jar. I stagger only briefly and then I am running, Shutter stumbling and complaining at my side, but I leave him behind in short order. Elves and men might be more fleet of foot than a dwarf, but I defy any man to best a dwarf over unstable rock and stone.

"Legolas!" I call out, because I have seen something… or rather it is what I _cannot_ see that is the concern. Where Oren and Legolas were stood there is now a huge crevice, a mighty crack in the stone, and I cannot see them any longer.

~{O}~

I run and stagger and slip, make my way far too recklessly across a ground still unstable and settling, pitted and dangerous, but I make it safely to fall to my stomach at the edge of the new fissure. There is Oren, braced upon the smallest lip of stone about five feet beneath where I am, and there is Legolas suspended in the air – Oren's hand wrapped tightly around his wrist, holding him from falling.

My first thought is surprise – outright astonishment – that Oren has saved Legolas' life.

My second thought is that I do not think there is a single mountain upon all of Arda that one of us has not nearly – or actually – fallen from. The third thought is the most important, and this is how exactly I am meant to get them back up! It is not an endless drop, not even the highest thing Legolas has fallen from, but the stone is splintered and jagged the whole way down to a razor toothed bottom. Legolas is surprisingly resilient for a creature made of feathers and leaves, but nothing could survive such a fall. I feel Shutter land at my side, falling onto his belly just as I have, and he takes a sharp intake of breath that I try to ignore.

Oren looks up, sees my face above him, and he says the first words I have heard him utter.

"He is not heavy," he says, and his voice is soft and thickly accented, if a little strained, "but I cannot hold him for long."

"Gimli!" Legolas calls urgently. I can barely see him dangling down there – it is pitch black even up here – but I can see enough. His eyes are wide and frightened, a far cry from the vicious and wild thing he was just a short time ago. "I have said it before – if I die in a mountain I will haunt you for all of your days!"

"Swing him to the stone face," I instruct carefully, calmly, because for some reason I feel the need to counteract Legolas' panic despite that I feel as though my heart is about to explode out through my ribs.

"What sort of idea is that?! Do not swing me _, think of something better!"_

"I have seen you climb sheer rock faces before Legolas," I snap at him, my calm evaporating almost instantly. "Now is not the time to develop a sense of self-preservation!"

Oren slips, makes a soft sound of exertion, because he is balanced upon the barest lip of rock and he carries an awkward burden. Elves are surprisingly light in weight, like birds, but Oren has no space to balance himself against the offset of a dangling elf. I am astounded that the assassin has saved him at all, but he will not risk his own life. I know that he will not. Legolas feels himself slip, his breath catches, and suddenly he finds it in himself to be Legolas again. Idiotic, brave, insane.

"Swing me," he instructs firmly, and Oren nods. He will be able to get very little momentum going – not without losing his own footing – but there is not a single one amongst us who did not already know this. Not a single one of us who did not realise right from the beginning that Legolas was going to have to fall a short way… that Oren could only swing him to a certain arc, let go, and hope for the best.

I almost look away – I am not sure I can watch – but Legolas glances up at me again.

Sometimes we connect when we do this, and his summer blue gaze fastens onto mine for just a moment. He is battered and bloody, hanging above a narrow fissure that guarantees the most dreadful way an elf could possibly die, and he _smiles_ , of all things. After everything we have done tonight, everything we have experienced and how we have hurt one another, it is nothing at all. We have been through too much for it to be anything but the passing of a season, a new thing to learn. He grins broadly, and I cannot help but grin back. Shutter glares at me as though we are both insane.

"At least it is not I who will be letting you fall," I say softly, knowing that he can hear me.

"You never have," he calls up. He grins all the wider, all fear falling away into whatever place these ridiculous elves store their more sensible emotions. He looks to Oren and nods, and the assassin heaves – actually heaves in an attempt to swing him as close to the side of the fissure as he can. He swings once, twice, but then he starts to slip and must let go.

Legolas drops, but he is falling at an angle enough to hit the stone face about twenty feet down. He slams into the rock, probably shreds every unprotected piece of skin on his body, loses his purchase and falls a few feet further before he catches hold. I take a moment to let my head fall forward onto the ground, bumping my forehead a bit harder than I meant to, and I regain my breath. Try to calm my heart before I suffer some sort of fit. Shutter pats me on the back consolingly and I raise my head again.

"You have landed better," I call my opinion to him, because now I must keep his attention away from where he is. Almost thirty feet into a narrow stone chasm, enclosed and trapped, I need him to think of nothing but climbing upward. Legolas pauses, regains his own breath, steadies himself and then begins to climb.

"You are welcome to try it yourself," he calls back up, his voice twisted and distant. Tight with tension.

"Should you be distracting him?" Shutter hisses, but then he is similarly distracted by Oren who is now clambering over the lip of the fissure. He helps him over the edge.

"Are you going to behave?" I demand, twisting upon my stomach to look back at the assassin. His response is to simply plant himself upon the ground heavily, exhausted and hurt, and he pulls the mask down from his face. It is the first time I have seen it, and I am surprised by how young he is. Khandish men are often beardless, but he looks to be no more than Shutter's age; fine featured and handsome, with almond eyes and skin the colour of honey. He gives me a look from the side of his eye that says everything I need to know. He is no threat to us right now. I return my attention to the chasm, and where Legolas inches himself slowly toward us.

"Should I make camp?" I call down.

"Gimli I do not appreciate the commentary," he yells back at me, tight and annoyed. "I go as fast as I can."

"I am only saying that there is a battle going on in the city, I was hoping to join it at some point."

"Then go!" he bites. His hand slips, he falls a foot and I am certain I am going to faint dead away. My heart is hammering, my hands shake from fear, but I channel it into something else. Something useful.

"Yes," I growl, "because I wish for your spirit to haunt me, bellyaching for eternity because you fell off _yet another_ mountain. Your father would hunt me through all the days I have left."

"My father likes you," Legolas murmurs, twenty feet down but I catch it. He is focussed on what he does, on this shouted conversation, and in no way on the fact that he is climbing up from what could be a stone grave. It is important, so very important that he pays no attention to where he is. He pauses, takes a breather. He is exhausted. I quash my panic into nothing.

"I am sorry for what I did," he calls out softly, for my ears only. "Sorry that I hurt you."

He rests against the stone, and he is so very close and yet an eternity away. He takes one hand away from where he grips the face of stone and shakes it gingerly. Legolas has broken that hand twice in the last year.

"No," I call down. "You are not. You should not be. I gave you little choice. It is nothing my friend, I swear it is _nothing_ , and it will be forgotten entirely if you would just _climb_."

He looks up, catches my eye and there is a softening in his face... barely anything to someone who does not know him. He smiles and starts again, puts more effort into it. He is trying to make me feel better, the idiot.

"I was thinking," he huffs, returning to what he does.

"You have not the mental capacity – think less and climb more."

He is silent, and I think perhaps I am starting to become a bit mean. I do this sometimes, we both do.

"What do you think of?"

"Before the winter," he tells me, as though there has been no gap at all in our conversation. A conversation, I might add, that we are having whilst I hang over the edge of a chasm on my belly and he hauls his elven carcass upward. "I think I might like to go to the valley – Rowan's valley. I would like to see what they have made of it, if you are in agreement."

I smile. We always seem to decide the next place for our travels when we are in the most ridiculous, dark or dangerous situations. I like the idea though, and I tell him so, and once he is close enough I reach down, grab onto his jerkin and Shutter does the same.

We heave as he scrambles, and in short order he is dragged – his clothing rucked up by his silly ears – over the edge. He lies flat and heaving upon sodden and safe ground, I reach across and pat his chest, feel his heart beating bird-fast against his ribs, and he likewise reaches across and grips scarred and archer-hard fingers into my sodden jerkin. We catch our breath, calm our hearts, but we speak in these moments. We both say our thanks to one another, both show gratitude that we live, both demonstrate the affection we have for the other. All in the smallest of gestures.

Legolas rises, scrapes his knuckles against the awful slice across his cheek and grimaces – it must smart terribly – but he discards the pain. Sits, pulls himself to his feet in a surprisingly nimble movement, and he looks to Oren. He steps toward him, gripping Shutter's shoulder in thanks as he passes, but he stops at a respectful distance. Oren looks up, takes a deep breath, rises as well. He clambers to his feet as though he climbs a mountain, but he is proud. I would rise too if I had the energy for it.

The elf and the assassin stare at one another for a very long time, the rain tapping and pattering at us with none of the fury it had before. It goes on for so long that Shutter glances at me, and I can do nothing but roll my eyes. This is one of those moments of honour, of meaningful discourse between two enemies who respect one another. If I did not hurt so much, or was cleaner, or in any way better situated than I am now, I might appreciate it more.

I glance at Shutter, and he blinks at me.

"We could simply leave," he whispers, jerks his head toward the city, but then Legolas finally speaks.

"What now?" Legolas asks the assassin before him. "Will you make me regret it?"

Oren tugs his mask back over his face, and although I know he is hurting – _ai_ he was barely upright a moment ago – he stands proudly before his opponent. He stands not ten feet from me, but he might as well be a thousand miles away for the distance I feel between us.

With the mask back upon his face it is so easy to forget there is a man beneath it. His eyes are cold and emotionless, without his face there are no expressions to read. I might as well be watching a rock face for all I am given to work with. What sort of man is he truly? He has shown himself to be deadly, a murdering assassin, but although I would not trust him even to tell me the weather outside, there is something that Legolas sees, and that I do not. The elfling is accustomed to warriors with warring hearts, with what bloodshed can do to a fëa and what can soothe the ragged tatters left behind. It is one of his strengths, one that I do not grant him enough credit for, because people trust Legolas. It takes a while, but there is something in him that makes people want to be better. He has endless flaws in his personality, but there is no question as to his honour; there is a purity to him that men respond to.

"Why did you spare me?" the Khandish man asks instead. His voice is muffled, still so soft and quiet, but he seems genuinely curious as to the answer. Legolas thinks for a moment.

"You are gifted," he admits. "I am hesitant to waste such a thing. You could turn your talents to far better endeavours, and perhaps I am tired of shedding the blood of warriors. None of us chose this life."

"And if I did?"

"None of us did," Legolas repeats.

Oren is silent for a very long time, but the two of them continue to watch one another. Legolas because elves can maintain eye contact through anything and not blink, and Oren because… I have no idea. I cannot fathom this man.

"I am serious, Gimli," Shutter whispers urgently. "We could slip away and they would not even notice."

I hiss him into silence this time, bat my hand into his stomach and he huffs and winces. I am starting to hate him less, but I am not particularly happy about it. He is still very annoying.

Oren shifts finally, seems to make a decision, and his gaze moves upward toward where the city lies concealed by darkness. He takes a deep breath.

"I have no loyalty to that man," he says. "He is my employer and nothing more, but I think perhaps this is a fight I do not wish to continue. There is little in this world for a warrior without a war to fight, but on occasion it is good to be reminded that honour still exists. I will help you, but on one condition."

He returns his gaze to Legolas, but this time there is a glimmer there in those dark, deadened eyes. Something like life, something bright and freshly kindled.

"Fight me again," he presses, and I cannot see but I think he might be smiling. "When this is over. I have not enjoyed myself so much in years."

Legolas grins, and I would think it inappropriate if I did not know this elf so well. He nods and it is granted, and Oren accepts. I roll my eyes again, I cannot help myself.

"Could we move matters along?" I ask, and the two of them turn to me in surprise as though they had forgotten I was even here. I make a rolling movement with my hand, raise an eyebrow, and it does not escape me that I am acting fairly casually with someone who would have slit my throat without thinking twice not a few hours ago. This is what my life has come to.

"The second circle has been sealed," Oren tells us, his voice settling into a matter of fact tone. "You will not gain entrance through the city, but that is not his true target in any case. He seeks his sister – it has always been about her. He sends my men to distract those who defend the circle, but the second circle will fall into line if she is killed. He seeks her upward, in the higher circles."

"I could not find her," Shutter argues. "How does he mean to?"

"He has been watching her a long time. Not with his own eyes, but he has had influence in this city for a while now. We did not speak much – I find him distasteful – but I heard him speak of it. She is on the upper circles, and this is all I know."

"Who is your contact?" Shutter asks. "Who is it that has been whispering in your master's ear, spilling our secrets?"

Oren looks at him, steady and silent, and I am fairly sure that I would have squirmed under such a regard but Shutter does not move. He stands solid and unwavering, and again I feel a flicker of respect for this young thief.

"I do not know his name," Oren admits finally. His accent is so thick that I struggle to understand him, if I am honest, but I hear his next words so clearly… so very clearly. "He is one of the new constabulary; those that they have recently started to call the Whitecloaks. A close partisan for the new Captain. He knew my master back when they were both boys in the city. He is stout and round faced, his closest friend is a lean young man with dark hair, he jokes often, and his hair is red."

We are all frozen for just a second, but Shutter breaks out into some filthy language. Absolutely horrendous. I cannot fault him though, because there is something inside of me that shrivels and dies, and it _hurts_. Legolas shifts his gaze to me, and I see some flicker of agonised accusation, because this is _exactly_ why he does not befriend the _edain_.

Ren.

Ren is the one that has betrayed us.

TBC

* * *

 **Hey everyone, and a happy Friday to all because i** **t's been quite a week; I don't think I've experienced emotional highs and lows the way I have these last few days.**

 **My dad has had a life changing, very major operation on his spine, but due to issues with his heart it was extremely high risk. He went in yesterday, was operated on for over five hours, sent straight to high dependency where he was meant to stay for three weeks.**

 **He was released today.**

 **Northern nurses don't use 'medical miracle' very often, but I think the truth is more 'he will accelerate his own healing with the pure power of his hatred of hospitals, and overall ornery nature'. My old man is made of steel and thorns, and I hope that I have inherited just a fraction of this.**

 **Anyway, I can relax a bit now, and I'd LOVE to hear what you think of the reveal. Ren is the one who has been whispering their secrets to Briar's brother. Ren! I love Ren! I actually started regretting my choice quite early on, because I was meant to write him so no one guessed it could be him, but all it did was make me very fond of him. I was sort of committed by then though, so I stuck to my guns. I haven't written the reactions from the other, slightly more absent members of Team Gimmers, but I'm so looking forward to it!**

 **Well, I'll be off. I'm finishing chapter 19 tonight with any luck, but I'll be around on my laptop. Early reviewers will most likely get a reply tonight.**

 **Have a great weekend :)**

 **MyselfOnly**


	19. Chapter 19

Oren leads us to toward the tunnel he has been using this whole time – yet _another_ of the damn things – and this ghost of a man seems to have completely forgotten every single one of his hurts in the last few minutes. He darts and clambers over the fallen stone and the shifting debris of the landslide, steadily upward, toward where a ledge would have been before the cliff face became a gentle incline. We follow him, but not all of us manage quite so easily.

Legolas helps me where he can, because curse him he is also suddenly bouncing around… full of the joys of spring, despite that he is still bleeding like a stuck spigot.

He is a hand at my elbow, a fist in my jerkin hauling me over a particularly challenging obstacle… he even slows imperceptibly when I need it. Bless his pointy ears he manages to do it without being seen, and so my pride is saved before this unknown assassin and ridiculous thief. Eru I am starting to feel all my years, throbbing and pulsing with each bruise and wound, ache and hurt. Still, I carry on, because I am sturdy if nothing else.

"We need to talk," I mutter at Legolas when we have a moment; a short moment where we will not be overheard. "About Ren."

"We do not," he bites back, studiously not looking at me. I see nothing but anger in his face, his rigid jawline, but we are still linked enough that I know he is hurt and confused on the inside. He glances at me out of the corner of his eye and softens, just a little bit. "The _edain_ betray, Gimli. I am starting to think that they cannot help it."

"Not all of them," I mumble, but it is a half-hearted attempt. I am also starting to grow weary of my trust being broken, just as I begin to extend it.

"Enough for it to be a pattern, my friend," he replies, the icy anger creeping back into his tone. "I think we should steer clear of them from now onward. They are not like us."

Aye, because elves and dwarves are so similar, after all. He will avoid men entirely if he can get away with it – and he is very good at it – but I am not willing to sever myself from them. They are like butterflies; gaudy and bright and brief, a thousand kinds all beneath the sun. Some will spoil things, but the rest are worth it. I say nothing though, because the elfling is not in the mood to hear me. He feels betrayal keenly, because elves do not have it in them… not the elves that he knows, in any case, but it is also because he trusts so infrequently. Men have a habit of coming up wanting when it comes to the trust he places in them.

I sigh, but I say nothing else. We will speak of it later.

Oren leads us steadily upward, a leaf on the wind, climbing as though it is nothing. We follow doggedly, and finally he shows us a fracture in the rock face that is most certainly not a tunnel. It is barely a sliver of a cut. I pause – I am not even sure that I can fit through it – and Legolas blanches visibly. I take a deep breath that catches on whatever is wrong in my rib cage… even dwarves have their limits. I cannot climb the entire way up through the city through this.

"This… this is a tunnel?" I ask doubtfully, hoping in some way that he will realise his mistake and lead us to the real entrance.

"It opens up within," Oren tells us flatly, correctly interpreting our horrified faces. I do not think we are trying particularly hard to hide them. "It is narrow, but navigable."

Legolas hooks his fingers into my sleeve and drags me a short distance away. We leave Shutter staring at the jagged slip of stone as though his mind has temporarily broken. Oren peers at his blank face curiously, and we move away. I know what he is going to say before he says it.

"I am not going in there," he says honestly. "I cannot."

"And I am not daft enough to argue with you over it – I am not interested in you losing your mind; we do not have time for it," I shrug. "Is it your arm, or your ribs?" I ask, gesturing at where he has pulled his arm tight against himself again.

"Ribs and shoulder," he admits. "Yours?"

"Certainly my ribs, everything else bruised or bleeding but nothing immediately worrisome. Painful though."

"This will need binding," he gestures toward the horrendous slice across his midriff. Grimaces. "My cheek will scar."

I cannot help but grin. I know exactly what we are doing, but I cannot stop being Gimli.

"Perhaps you will look a bit more like an adult with a scar, since you cannot grow a beard."

He shoves me soundly in the shoulder, and I would complain at how much that hurts if he did not yelp as well. We both grimace, scowl peevishly at one another through sodden hair.

Legolas will not be coming with Shutter and I – he cannot, I am not fool enough to think that he can. I eye the entrance to the tunnel, and Legolas is slender enough to fit through this crevice far easier than Shutter or I could manage, but I will not make him. I cannot expect him to.

"You can climb over the city walls?" I ask, and he gives me a scornful look, offended by my doubt. I shake my head. "Fine. Of course you can; you have climbed thousands of walls far higher with an arrow in your back and twenty orcs hanging from your ankles. Certainly something was on fire. I have heard the stories all before." I pause and turn. "You! Dubious fellow in the mask!"

I click my fingers in Oren's direction and even Legolas grimaces at the way I am speaking to the assassin. Oren himself looks surprised; oddly unoffended at the way I am addressing him. If anything, I think perhaps I am a novelty to him. I wonder how many Khandish men have even met a dwarf before, and I am a particularly dwarvish dwarf when I wish to be.

"Where does this tunnel end?"

"Many places," he says softly. "The last bolt hole out of the tunnel will take you to the Hollows."

"This mountain is lousy with tunnels!" I huff in exasperation. "I have no idea how it is even standing!"

Oren says nothing, stares at me until I start to feel uncomfortable, so I turn my attention to Shutter instead. He is still grimacing toward the cut in the rock face that I am not entirely certain he will be able to fit through. I jab him in the ribs with my elbow, and it snaps him from wherever his mind has vanished into.

"By the stars and _skies_ Gimli, must you constantly hit and jab me?!"

"You will survive this with your mind intact?" I ask him bluntly. He frowns instantly.

"Will _you?_ " he counters, distracted by how annoying he finds me. "I will be fine… quite happy. Deliriously so. In fact I am quite looking forward to it."

We glare at one another, scowling for a long time, but I cannot help myself; I start to laugh. After a moment his face softens imperceptibly. He sighs, his eyes move heavenward for just a heartbeat, and then his hand moves in a gesture toward the tiny fracture in the rock. He offers that I go first.

I glance at Legolas for only a moment, but we say a lot in that moment. He looks worried, swiftly banished, but I know that he frets for me just the way I do for him. The fact that we are so accepting of this separation is heartening though; perhaps we are not so tangled together, perhaps there is hope that we can become how we once were – able to function independently.

I catch his eye and we tell each other to take care. He remains behind with Oren, and I have no idea this assassin's intentions but we have no time to discover it. I trust Legolas to make the right decision, I trust him to make his own way.

"Breakfast may well have to be lunch, my friend," I tell him, "I think I might be busy for breakfast." And he cannot help but smile. He remembers our promise. He tilts his head and there is something about the way he stands – bleeding and filthy and sodden – that makes him look guileless and young.

"Honey cakes and strawberries," he smiles, bright and golden green in the darkness. "They make as good a lunch as they do a breakfast."

I grin back, Shutter gives us both a look that says he thinks us so very, _very_ strange. He sighs as though we are a thing that he tolerates, hooks his fingers in my sleeve and turns me toward the fracture in the stone… not even a tunnel, truly.

And so we go.

~{O}~

The passage through the cut in the rock takes its payment, and it is in a considerable amount of skin. There are moments when I panic, because I cannot move – I am trapped, stuck – but with a wriggle and a heave I move onto the next atrocious bottle-neck of unforgiving stone. It jabs where I am already raw and bruised, I have to fold and bend, and in places it is nothing more than pure force that gets my stout and clumsy carcass through.

I can hear Shutter behind me, trying so hard to keep his breathing steady, but he is panicking far more than I am. He is not a dwarf – I spent many years as a youngling getting stuck in places I should not have been in, just like this – and I do not think he can see. Twice he speaks my name, tight and rigid, and I answer with something neutral and calm, because he needs to know he is not on his own. I remember when I disliked him, I remember it fondly, because the idiot thief has definitely changed in my eyes this last night. I feel protective of him, the way I often feel toward these young men grown way too early, and I despair at this tendency of mine. They only lead me to heartache, but I cannot seem to stop myself.

The mountain presses upon us, on both sides and above and below. It steals the breath from our lungs, sends our hearts hammering, and if I feel this fear then I cannot imagine how it might be for the young _adan_ following my steps not far behind. He does not love the stone as I do, he does not know each shadow and soft darkness, cannot hear the thrum of the mountain – safe and solid. To him, it is the weight of the entire world that hangs above his head, ready to collapse upon him.

I shove and push, twist and feel the rock scrape at my skin. Finally though, there is space. It opens, I can breathe, and I take the deepest lungful of air that I have ever taken. I give myself a beat, take a moment to gasp air that is stale and tinged with rock dust. It is pitch black in here, no light whatsoever, and when Shutter emerges from the worst of it he gasps and heaves as well, a presence in the darkness at my side.

"I should have followed the elf," he mutters to himself, but beneath his usual churlishness I hear fear. Genuine fear, but not the sort of fear that can be mastered. It is the fear of the dark, of being lost, of being so very small.

"You would be a child in his wake, Master Shutter. As amusing as it is to imagine."

We cannot see one another, but I can feel the tunnels twisting through the mountain as though they are written upon my mind. I know where they are, how to walk them, where they lead. It is natural, as though the mountain is happy that there is a son of Mahal here within its depths, and it sings to me. It shows me the paths proudly, they shine to me without any light at all. I had forgotten it… all of this time removed from the whisper of the mountain I had forgotten, but it returns to me as though it was never absent, never gone. It is as natural to me as breathing.

"Gimli," Shutter speaks tightly, quietly, as though he is afraid that the walls will slam down upon us. I can hear the gasp in his breathing, the jumping of his heart in the tone of his voice. He is very afraid, but he is trying to hide it.

"Laddie, we have had our moments, but do you trust me?"

He snorts, and it is dark enough for me to grin and know he does not see it.

"Do you trust a dwarf in a mountain?" I clarify. He is silent for a while.

"I have little choice in it," he sighs.

"You did not have to come here. You can leave back through that crevice – I will wait until you are out – but if we travel together then you need to decide."

"Would you leave the elf?"

"I have _literally_ just left the elf…"

"You know what I mean, curse you! Briar is alone, and it matters not how I find her, only that I do. I think you will bring me safely though the mountain, and so I follow you. Whether I wish it or not matters not at all."

I nod, because that is all I really needed. I grab him by the wrist, guide his hand upward where he tangles his fingers into my jerkin, and I pat his hand briefly, although it is more than I really wish to give him. I know that he needs the comfort.

"We will find her, lad. Just follow me."

And I lead him through the mountain.

~{O}~

I will not say too much about the journey, because it is unpleasant and I am fairly certain that Shutter is on the brink of his mind snapping into pieces the entire way, but it is hardly the worst journey through tunnels that I have experienced. Not even the worst I have experienced in the last six months.

The one thing these tunnels have in their favour is that they do not meander the way that the roads through the city do; there is a slight element of them repeating back upon themselves in a snake-like movement, but that is because Mindolluin is – after all – a mountain. It would be too steep if it simply took us directly to where we were going, but even so, it is far more direct than the roads of the city. There are no gate houses to navigate, no busy streets. The circles of Minas Tirith take an absolute age to navigate because it is a city: people live here, and it is laid out so that it is difficult to rise up through the circles should it be invaded. I am endlessly glad that these tunnels were not found back during the war. It certainly would have changed things.

Despite that Shutter has his hand clawed in my clothing – pinching more than a bit of skin, I have to say – and despite that I am a knot of aches and pains and worry for my friends. Despite that I still feel the acid roil in my stomach that we have been betrayed, and that I am concerned for Aragorn as well… despite all of it I cannot help but enjoy myself a little bit. These are unknown tunnels – or at least unknown to me; an alarming number of other people seem to know they are here. I shall have to have them collapsed and sealed as soon as I have the chance, but for now I simply try to enjoy them.

"How well do you know this Ren fellow?" Shutter asks me, and I grunt. His voice echoes flatly the way that voices do in close quarters, surrounded by stone.

"I have known him only a few hours longer than I have known you," I tell him, "so barely at all."

"But still…" he muses, and this time the noise I make is more in agreement.

"But still." I agree. "Betrayal is something I have become woefully accustomed to of late, especially with men. You folk can be so noble and mighty, so selfless, and yet so mean and small."

"And the other races are so different?" he asks. It could be far more confrontational, I am insulting his very race after all, but there is nothing of it in his voice. I think he is simply trying to distract himself, and although I do not particularly wish to get to know Shutter, I do not think I have much choice in it. He will carry on talking whether I am part of the conversation or not. I wonder if this is how Legolas feels when I speak to fill the silences.

"I have met Maiar, who are mysterious and keep their own counsel. I have met Halflings who are childlike and innocent but braver than a thousand men. Elves – it depends on the type of elf: they are either wise and distant, or too wild to read a damned thing of their intentions. Dwarves, of course, are flawless in every way you can think of."

Shutter snorts a laugh, although I do not think he meant to. I smile because I know he cannot see it.

"You have lead an interesting life, I think," he says. "I have met no elves before now, but I have met a few dwarves. They were not like you."

"Legolas and I," I muse thoughtfully, pausing to run my hand over a particularly interesting face of stone. There is a curious mix of ore, deep inside, but it is not enough to distract me. It is merely interesting. "We are both different, set apart. I think it is why we work well together… it was the same when we were on the Quest, although it took us a while to see it. We were the only ones of our kind, alone within a group, and once we came to speak we realised we were different even again – different to those of our own kind. Those differences only grow with the months that pass."

"Briar and I were the same," he speaks lowly. I am surprised – I had not expected him to speak anything of himself – but I am silent and allow it. I am curious, I will admit it. "Her father was a good man. Not great, not the way of great men, but he was fair and he kept the second circle in line. For a princess of thieves she was as dirt poor as the rest of us, so we ran together much of the time. We would pickpocket on the higher circles, we knew every bolthole and alley well enough to run blind in the darkest night. We knew which of the guards were cruel and would beat us if they caught us, and which might turn a blind eye and let us pass... they were often those born poor as well. The city was sparsely populated before the war, but the second circle was far better off than it is now. More dangerous, most definitely, and far darker, but we could always turn a coin somehow. Now we are policed, now we have an army with little else to do but break our smuggling rings and find our stashes, rout out the guilds and dismantle structures of influence that have been in place for generations."

"You sound bitter," I observe, as neutrally as I can. I continue to heave my way upwards on a path that really is not meant for easy travelling; jagged and steep and treacherous.

"I suppose I am," he sighs, and I feel him shrug rather than see it. "It is difficult to watch, but I think our sons and daughters will be thankful for it. In any case, that is not what I speak of. Briar never wanted to fall into the position she has taken over. You know the herds of horses that are left to wander and breed, and are rounded up every year? We build vast paddocks for them on the Pelennor – vast and sturdy. It takes months to prepare for, and they bring the herds back toward the city in endless droves, into the pens. We brand them with the King's Tree, we take count of each head and treat injuries, and a few of the yearlings are selected for the stables or for stud. It is a huge event. Rohan bring horses to trade, so that we can send new blood out with the herds when they are released, and the city makes much money from it. She wanted to do that; to join the herdsmen that ride out in their hundreds every spring to find them, to guard the horses whilst they foaled until it is time to bring them back in the summer. That is what she wanted, and I would have gone with her. I would have followed her anywhere, because she never saw me as a lowborn thief – she never saw either of us that way. She said that when we were older, we would raise our families close by one another, and our children would be the best of friends just as we were."

"You never thought to marry her yourself?" I ask.

"No," he laughs. "Many have assumed such a thing, but a man and a woman can be friends. We were made to be the other half of one another, but not as man and wife."

"I do not think that any of us have lived the life we thought to," I admit to him. Our conversation halts for a long time, because the way has become extremely steep and difficult. It might have gone easier had Shutter been able to see, but the poor lad is doing this entirely in the dark. I have grown used to travelling with elves, because even in the absence of any light they can make do with the movement of air and the echoes of our steps. Shutter does well, far better than I expected, but although I can hear my own voice – flat and too loud in the silence – telling him where to place his feet, and what to expect, I can still hear the slightest gasp here and there. He is hating every second of this, but he continues.

"I am hoping," he says eventually, when we pause to catch our breath again. He sounds wistful for a moment, nothing of the sarcasm or biting mockery I have grown accustomed to. "I am hoping that it is not too late. The herdsmen have started to ride out again, just this last few weeks gone. It is the first time they have ridden in years. Perhaps we will ride with them next year, or the year after."

"Do not leave it too long, Master Shutter," I tell him. I reach out, and I grip his shoulder tightly. "If I have learned one thing recently, it is that there will always be one more thing – one more reason to stay, one more thing that must be done. Let others take some of the weight, because you only have one life. Each of us has our years numbered, and even the elves will be gone soon. Run with the horses, if that is what you wish. There are no more battles to fight."

He makes a strangled sort of noise, and I cannot help my snort of laughter.

"Except the one that happens right outside these tunnels," I clarify. "But it is hardly a war, and it will be over in short order. Do not fear."

This time I clap him upon the back a bit harder than I had probably meant to, and he cannot see me so he was not prepared. He staggers and I catch him, set him back upright, and I lead him onwards through the darkness.

~{O}~

When we come out of the tunnel it is almost blinding, although it is barely even dawn yet. The sun rises late in spring; it is weeks yet before we will be granted earlier sunrises and later evenings, but after what has felt like an age in absolute darkness it seems so bright. So open and huge and limitless. It is not the first time I have felt this strange passage between the worlds, but every time it is similar if not the same. I am starting to enjoy it.

The storm has passed, the sky turns the faintest grey to the east, and I can hear a few birds singing. It is not the tumult of the forest, because not many birds live in these heights, but some have made their homes here and they sing in the dawn. I can hear the pattering softness of trees that drip and run, I can hear water running across stone and into gulleys, cascading noisily from the edges of buildings onto paved pathways. Every sound I hear is wet and fresh and clear, every scent sharp and scrubbed by the storm, and Shutter lowers himself onto a very crooked – and possibly unsound – wall, his legs shaking with relief.

He turns his face to the sky. Allows a few drops of water to fall onto his face, his eyelids, and he smiles in what seems like the brightest night I have walked in for a long time. He breathes deeply, slowly, steadies himself.

"That was dreadful," he tells me factually.

"And that is why I did not join you," comes a voice from the air, and my legs almost crumple in surprise. My heart leaps into my throat, Shutter makes the oddest noise of fright, and of course my first reaction is anger.

"No!" I shout, then lower my voice carefully into a furious hiss. "No, you did not beat us here, I do not accept it. And how did you know where to come?!"

Legolas is sat on the low hanging branch of a sycamore, his legs swinging. I have dried off a little but he is still soaked, although he looks quite happy. I think it has done him well, to sit here for a while. He is glowing… well… it is not a glow; it has never been a glow. He simply seems to capture the starlight, to reflect it back. He is cast pale and silver in the darkness.

"How has your heart withstood years of this treatment?!" Shutter demands of me, his fist clenched against his chest and a furious scowl in my direction. I am unsure why this is suddenly my fault.

"It is little effort if you travel in a straight line," Legolas frowns, also unsure why we are cross with him. "And I had time to find the tunnel entrance once I knew it was here."

For a moment, just a moment, I consider pointing out that some of those walls are hundreds of feet in height, but I do not bother. Despite that I have seen him struggle to climb thirty feet up a crevice, I think it is different when he is surrounded by the air and the wind. And also when he is trying to win a race only he knows we are having. He can be such a child, sometimes.

"Did you make any effort to see what happens elsewhere in the city?" I ask him, "or were you simply intent upon getting here first."

"Gimli," he reprimands softly, but I can see a glint of mischief in his eye that has no business being there. He pushes himself from the branch and lands in the soft and wet grass without a single sound. "Of course I looked. The second is completely sealed off; there is fighting there but it is isolated, solitary pockets, controlled by Briar's men. I think they will be victorious, but they were getting ready to open the gates as I passed. The City Guard should be entering the circle in short order. We have missed most of the fighting."

"Aye," I tell him flatly. "What a bother. Not one of us has drawn a blade this evening, how very aggravating."

He makes a dismissive gesture that says I know what he means, which is a bit presumptuous of him, and he strides across the grass until he is in an open area. I take a moment to realise where we are. The Hollows – the final resting place of Kings, Queens and Stewards. The shadows of squat and ancient buildings that surround us, rising into the darkness, are actually tombs.

We sit here chatting away in a graveyard, and as soon as I have realised it almost every hair on my body stands upon end.

"We should not tarry here," I whisper.

"You did not even realise where we were until a moment ago," Legolas tuts at me over his shoulder.

I scowl at him until I am certain his head will catch fire if I do not break my gaze, because that is just like an elf. Here we are, surrounded by the ghosts and wights of men, and he might as well be strolling across the gardens. He cares nothing for such things, despite what we witnessed with our very eyes in the passages of the dead. He might not fear the spirits of men, but he knows full well that they exist.

I feel suddenly anxious and frightened, unreasonably so, and it frustrates and annoys me. I am a little mollified by the fact that Shutter also seems to be uncomfortable – his gaze casting about constantly, wide and untrusting – but Legolas has his face turned to the stars and is barely even paying attention. I am about to ask him – probably not very politely – if we should make ourselves comfortable, but as ever he knows me well enough to anticipate it. He replies to me before I have spoken.

"I am listening," he tells me. There is a hint of annoyance in his tone that I am sure I would deserve, had I actually spoken first. "It is a good distance, on the very edge of my senses. If you could be quieter, it would be appreciated."

I have been stood here in silence, I am unsure how I am being noisy. I open my mouth to demand exactly how I might silence my heartbeat, or the rush of my blood, but once again he silences me before I have spoken. Nothing more than a spread of his hand, but I am starting to feel the familiar itch in my hands that speak of an irresistible urge to throttle the pointy eared idiot. I glance at Shutter, still on his wall but somehow comfortable and relaxed now. The look he gives me is both amused and sympathetic.

I stand silently, I watch Legolas stand in the grass surrounded by the tombs of Kings, a sliver of moonlight catches him and he could be a statue for all I know. He does not move even slightly, frozen and captured in the stars. I scratch at my thigh in boredom, sit down upon a wall of my own. A long time passes.

"Any time you might wish to –"

"Gimli!" he snaps, twisting toward me in a movement I had not expected. I hold my hands up in apology, and he huffs again. Gestures toward the White Tower, barely visible. "That way," he bites.

"What do you hear?" Shutter asks, hauling himself to his feet. I think the inactivity has him stiffening to a stone, because I certainly am. Legolas frowns, a small furrow to his brow but I can see it, and his gaze does not move from the distance. He shrugs and shakes his head.

"I do not know," he admits. "If we were in the wood or even in the city I might hear it better, but up here the sounds twist away into the wind. There is a disturbance. It is all we have, and better than nothing at all."

"Well," I huff, clapping my hands to my thighs and standing up with a mighty popping and cracking of joints. "You are right; it is all we have, and we have nothing better to do. Are we set, lads?"

I look to Legolas, who would be ready for anything if his arm was hanging off, and then to Shutter who is surprisingly good at hiding his mind. We are an odd collection; a dwarf and an elf and a young thief, all of us hurt and exhausted and we do not even like each other all that well, but oddly, we are all ready. The dawn brings a breath of air and a new purpose, a new burst of energy we did not have before. The White Tower is worryingly close to Aragorn, and I know that Shutter worries for Briar. All three of us are anxious and edgy, a bit raw and exposed, but I think we are often our best when we are this way.

Shutter twists and stretches, popping and cracking in a way that makes me feel far better about the fact that I also crack and pop. He pulls his arm over the opposite shoulder, twists his neck and does something very alarming with his hip that makes a loud noise. He shakes his arms and pulls his shoulder back and forward, then grins brightly. I have seen the expression on his face a great many times, but this time it is different. This time it seems honest and real, and despite that he is quite frightened, there are some of us that live for these moments. Shutter is one of them.

"Lead on," he gestures grandly. And Legolas leads us through the damp dawn, silent but loud with birdsong.

~{O}~

Any other day I would think of this as a fine morning, brisk and crisp and beautiful, but we head toward uncertainty.

The Hollows are a fair distance away from anything of note, intentionally isolated to allow the respect this graveyard deserves, and so the three of us jog across lush green and storm sodden grass. We save our energy in a run that we can keep up for hours, should we need to, and I feel my muscles loosen and warm with the familiar movement. The rising sun picks out the faint wisps of retreating storm clouds, promising a fine day now that it has passed, and the few birds that make their homes in such heights start to trill and whistle their greeting to the morning. Sharp and clear, close and loud.

The hems of my trousers are heavy with rain gathered from the grass, the upper half of me begins to dry, and strangely I begin to feel quite fine. I still ache, I still feel each one of my hurts; I am hungry and thirsty and I am very aware of the last time I had any sleep, but I am accustomed to this. I have grown used to pushing past my weariness and ignoring the complaints of my body. I have a place inside me where I push it all deep – perhaps a glimmer of what the elves do – and instead I notice what is around me.

The scent of wet soil and dripping blossom, the beauty of a cherry tree laden white and pink in the grey dawning. I take a moment to appreciate a particular tree that is probably as old as this city itself – small and gnarled but its canopy vast – and how the White Tower rises against a brightening sky ahead of us. Small things – the zip of an insect and how ragwort and hawkweed grant a splash of the deepest colour in between primrose and daisy – and I catch the smallest breath of Legolas' enjoyment as well. It catches me like a spiderweb, there and then gone, and I realise how much our link has faded recently.

A few days ago I had thought it as strong as ever, just as iron clad as when the Shadow forced it upon us, but something has changed. I know not what, but in the few days since I used this link to hurt him in Aragorn's chambers it has started to noticeably weaken. I do not know if it is because I have misused this gift, or because it has signified the last moments of our need for it, but I feel the strangest pang of loss at the idea of us being connected no longer.

Legolas and I were always linked, always connected, but this has been the most literal sense of it. There is a difference between knowing someone, and _knowing_ someone. I am grateful for what I have had, because no one has ever been granted such a gift before – I realise now what a fool I was to hate it in the first – but now? I am torn between gratitude that I am finally being separated from him, and also sadness.

We reach the outer edges of the Hollows, where things steadily change from a graveyard to a more habitable place for living people, and Legolas holds his hand up in a terribly complicated gesture. I recognise some of it, enough to understand, and I grab Shutter and yank him into a rhododendron bush. He muffles his yelp of surprise out of pure instinct, glares accusingly at me as he rolls off his hip and rubs it gingerly, but I have only eyes for the elfling.

He is held in a tight ball, crouched on one knee and with the other tucked tightly into his chest, and he stares sharply into the glimmering dawn before turning and meeting my eyes. He gestures with his chin, and I peer into the half-light.

My eyes widen, and I feel a gasp of air escape.

I say: "Eru."

Just as Legolas says: "By the stars."

Just as Shutter says: "By the almighty manhood of Aulë!"

And both Legolas and I shoot him some form of offended or horrified look.

He is unrepentant; meets our eyes and town-turns his mouth. I am not sure I blame him. The man that guards our approach is the largest man I have ever seen in my life. I have seen Cave Trolls smaller. He is bald headed and simply dressed, because I cannot imagine he can find clothes that fit him particularly easily. He wears no armour, not even leather, and that is a worrisome thing all by itself. He wields a staff and cudgel, his face is lumpish and scarred and Eru… one of his thighs is as broad around as my chest! He is utterly enormous, as though someone has dressed a northern bear, given him a weapon and put him exactly where we need to be.

I have no idea at all what we are meant to do with him. Perhaps I could chop him down like a tree. I look to Legolas.

A silence passes between us where we stare at one another. I gesture toward the mountain of a man with my shoulder as if to say: 'well get on with it then' but he shakes his head.

"Your turn," he says absolutely. "It is completely and utterly your turn. Hit him on the head with your axe."

"I would have to be sat on your shoulders to do it; cannot _reach_ his head," I point out with a scowl.

We pause, all three of us wondering who might tackle this giant and how. Legolas and Shutter are best in quickness and speed, but I am also significantly shorter than either of them. I huff a breath, twist my head so it cracks, because I think this might fall to me and I am not happy about it at all.

"We could simply run around him," Shutter points out. "He does not look very fast."

"Neither does Gimli," Legolas points out, and I cannot help the offended noise I make. "He is surprisingly fleet of foot when he wishes to be. No, I do not want this man chasing behind us the whole way. I have already survived two landslides today, I have no wish to be in another. We will go together – a wolf pack can take down beasts of enormous size when they work as one."

"Yes," I sound out carefully, wag my finger between myself and Shutter. "But we dislike one another, and you have a habit of running off and doing as you wish. We are more akin to a band of cats than wolves. I am astounded one of us has not already wandered off or fallen asleep."

There is a moment of silence before Shutter snorts a laugh. I cannot help but grin as well, and Legolas' face softens into something amused and weary of me. He shakes his head, Shutter grips my shoulder tightly and I give in. I no longer hate him, and I am a bit cross about it.

"Well then," the thief takes a deep breath and stands, stretches, as though we do nothing more than take in the morning air. The enormous man sees him, freezes, and Shutter glances down at where we still crouch. "An odd wolf pack we may be, but cats are effective in their own way and we do nothing at all hiding in a bush. He is stood where we need to pass, and I have things I mean to do."

TBC

* * *

 **So, once again, Thirsty for More has made me feel guilty enough to post. You are very good at tugging at the heartstrings, my friend!**

 **Not actually a huge amount happens here other than a wee bit of character development, but crikey the next chapter has a lot going on! I'm still writing it, nearly finished, but I really think you're going to love it.**

 **I'd really love to hear what you think of this chapter, but this author's note is going to be a bit short I'm afraid. England has - for once - had a very early and fairly normal summer so far (at least, the way other countries consider it) No torrential rain, no sudden hailstorms, my bin has not been blown halfway across the town even once. I'm sat here sweating in places I didn't know had sweat glands (ankles... really?) and it's not even the first heatwave we've had this early in the year. I am - like my fellow countrymen - complaining incessantly about it.**

 **Anyway, drop me a line and let me know what you think. This chapter is sort of the gateway into the final bit of the fic so we're all on the downhill slope together now. To the point where I've started wondering what the next one is going to be about!**

 **Love to hear from you, and have a great weekend :)**

 **MyselfOnly**


	20. Chapter 20

We run across the sodden green grass, heavy heads of hawkweed and ragwort slapping hard against our boots. The ground is pitted and muddied, tussocks of meadow-grass clustered and easily tripped upon, but we seem to have taken Legolas' likening of us as wolves to heart. We run together, unified in purpose, and it is probably never going to happen again and is probably entirely by accident, but for a moment it feels quite grand. We split apart like birds breaking formation, just as the huge mountain of a man guarding the Tower recognises that we are going to attack rather than flee.

He seems pleased, if any emotion can be read upon what is barely functional as a face, and he squares toward our attack as though he is glad of it. As though he is bored, as though we are a simple distraction, and perhaps we are but I plan to be a painful one.

Legolas is the fastest of us. He sweeps low, ducks beneath the giant's reach, but the glint of silver in the dawn is not the tendon severing injury he had meant it to be. We have misjudged this man, this monster, because he might very well be the same dimensions as a cow, but he is far faster than he looks. He is just quick enough for Legolas' blow to be glancing – painful but not hobbling – and he swings his cudgel underhanded so that it catches the elfling upon the hip. It catches him in the brief moment when he is off balance, and Legolas stumbles but does not go down. Were he in better condition he might have dodged it but I will never know, and the giant does not simply leave it at that. He turns and grabs the elfling by the arm – mere kindling in his grip – twists it so that Legolas must drop to his knee and turn his body to alleviate the pressure upon the joint in his shoulder.

Legolas hisses, an involuntary sound of pain, but my elfling would have ended his days upon these shores long ago if such a move were enough to incapacitate him. He snarls, spits furious words I am glad I do not understand, and although he is all but tearing his shoulder to pieces he rolls forward and to one side. He wrenches his arm from the grasp of this giant, who rewards him for such a graceful move by booting him in the ribs.

Legolas goes from a graceful roll into a nasty and heavy slide, curled in upon himself. He lies in the mud gasping, his arm braced across his ribs and the other limp upon the ground, but Shutter reaches the giant in the matter of moments that have passed. Ai… it has been only moments!

Shutter takes the other side of the giant, the right side, where he holds his staff. No matter how massive they might be, any man approached directly toward his sword arm is often unable to swing, and it is rare indeed that any can wield a weapon well in both his left and his right. Rare, but not impossible.

We really have misjudged this man.

He is built from oak and slab, far taller than any man has a right to be, but it seems he is fast and skilled as well. Why such a creature has been left to guard the back door I have no idea, but he is also only one person guarding a door that I would have left a company to protect, and we are no longer wolves. We are not even cats. At this point I would liken us better to furious toddlers taking exception to bath time.

He swats Shutter aside as though he is an inconvenience, but there is nastiness in this monster of a man. He crunches his elbow into the lad's jaw with just enough force to have him reeling, and I know he could have floored him quite easily but he does not. The giant considers his staff for a moment, but then drops it and snatches Shutter's blade – snatches it into his non-dominant hand and grabs the lad by the scruff of the neck, drives a knee into his stomach and then flings him into Legolas, who is only just staggering to his feet. They both fall heavily, and Shutter rolls into the mud gagging and choking.

And so it falls to me.

If I were faster, perhaps I could also be lying about in the mud, but it is not so. The thief and the elf seem quite happy cursing and wheezing where they lie, and I reach the huge man just in time to receive a crack across the skull that I did not even see coming. Luckily, dwarven heads are far more sturdy than anything the race of the eldar or the _edain_ have managed to produce, but it is enough to stall me… enough to have my purpose and reason evaporate and vanish from my head. I am lucky though… so lucky that I have another to watch over me when I cannot.

Legolas shouts as I stumble, and I can see just enough through a haze of white sparks and nonsensical slew of thoughts to see Legolas roll from the ground. He catches his blades awkwardly, tosses them and catches them all the better, ducks and twists and swipes. It is a beautiful movement, all the more graceful for the hurt I know he feels, and with an extended arm and a duck he severs the brute's artery in one movement. Beneath the arm – a place few can protect – but it deters him not at all. Blood blooms fresh and bright red, I can smell it, but this bull of a man does nothing but roar his anger into the new day and rush at the both of us.

Shutter's blade is still in the huge man's hand, and he grabs Legolas by the hair – a nasty and rough movement – fast enough to yank him back into reach. He draws that blade across the elfling's torso but it might have been far worse, far worse had Legolas been anything less than he is. The elfling melts beneath the bite of the blade… not enough to avoid it, but enough to stop it being a killing blow. Redness blooms once again across his chest and he lets out a brief sound of pain – ai I grow weary of that sound – and although this bull of a man will not relinquish his grip upon the elfling's hair, Legolas twists and jams his blade between his ribs.

He is released, an ugly sound of pain and anger escaping, but the bull kicks Legolas squarely in the chest as he passes and the sound is solid, like he has been kicked by a horse. Once more the elfling falls, but this time he does not rise.

Shutter and I attack as one person. I cannot answer for this thief, this strange ally we have found, but I feel a roar in my ears and see a redness that was not there before. Not before I heard the soft sound of pain and exhaustion that has passed Legolas' lips. Not because I heard it, but because he made it at all. Legolas rarely gives voice to his hurt… through everything that we have done and endured, he has done so silently, but although I have seen him hurt more times than I wish, I have never seen him hit so brutally. Legolas is strong, despite that he seems made of naught but twigs and feathers, but this man hits like a hammer to an anvil, and perhaps a hammer needs a dwarf, rather than a woodland archer.

My Mahal, it is ingrained within me now… I cannot see Legolas so wounded and not go blind with the need to protect him.

Shutter is a whirlwind of movement then, and I think it is mostly a saving of face because he has been so easily tossed aside, but I care not; the results are the same. He pulls himself backward and twists, turns, snatches Legolas' blade from nerveless fingers to replace his own and makes some unfathomable movement upon heel and hip, turns and slices this monster's thigh, turns and cuts deep into his spine.

He receives a kick to the chest for his trouble, goes down with a choke – the second time he has been winded in as many minutes – but the brute is distracted for long enough. Long enough for me to drop my axe – toss it out of harm's way – and slide up upon his back. I am a dwarf who rides horses, one of a very short list in my people's history books, and so I have found myself quite accomplished at grabbing and hooking, sliding and hauling my carcass up upon things too high to be easily climbed. It has become deft, if I could ever be considered deft, and the beast of a man does not even notice at first that I have climbed upon his upper back.

Dwarves are all of a kind when we are with one another – in fact I am considered tall by our standards – but the taller folk are more prolific, and so I am well used to craning my neck in conversation. I am, however, stronger than almost everyone that I know. Legolas cannot best me in strength, despite that his archer's body is predominantly sinew and muscle, because he cannot. I am built low, but I am built of iron, and I am well aware of my own limits. I clamber upon this monster's back, and I know I have won.

Legolas has severed this beast's artery, eventually he would bleed out all on his own, but I do not think that we have the time for it. He does not seem to have even noticed the damage, not even slightly, and he is just about grinding us into the dirt in the meantime. We have no time for him to bleed out like any respectable man might, and so I twist myself upon his back, claw forward until I can shove and push and jam my arm across his throat.

I brace my hand upon the elbow of the other, cupped under his slab of a face, and I use every muscle available to me to pull. I haul my own arm toward me, and the muscles that I use are not ones I utilise that often but they are still like stone, still enough to choke out a bull if I wished it. And so I choke out a bull, whether he is shaped as a man or not. I heave and draw, and something in the inner musculature of my arm and chest sounds an alarm but I do not let go. I choke and I heave, and the man beneath me bucks and roars, twists and even throws himself backward onto the ground to try and crush me. I fall beneath his weight and my eyesight dims, my ribs creak, the breath escapes me in a wheeze, but I do not let go.

I keep my hold, I roar out in exertion but still I do not let go, and I can see the flesh beneath my arms turn red and then purple. Can see his scalp – the delicate pink of it – change colour. I can feel his pulse hammering against my own skin, feel the barrel of his chest desperately heave for air and I cling on, even though it hurts now. My muscles scream and sing, my own blood pounds in my ears, but the man's struggles lessen. He weakens, flops his arms, the blood loss and the lack of air begin to take their toll.

I yell again, a cry to the skies. I twist so that I can brace one foot against the ground for leverage and I yank. I twist with my whole body, sudden and nasty, and I feel his neck snap beneath my arms. He falls limp in a second, and I am sat atop a dead thing that was once a man..

~{O}~

I wish that I had time to recover, I truly do, but as Legolas limps painfully over – arm cradled to his ribs – and holds out an arm to help me to my feet, I know that it is not the case. Shutter joins us, I set my shaking arms to my knees and try to regain my breath, but there is no respite.

A spill of men fall from the tower, a tumult of them, and I think perhaps they have been watching this fight. I think they had expected to see an enjoyable spectacle, something amusing to pass the time, but we have beaten their champion and now they race to end what he started. Ten of them, perhaps, and I have fought such numbers before but I am hurt and tired and they are all well trained and lethal. They do not shout or cry out as they run, they do not make a sound at all, but it is all the more frightening for it. All the more chilling.

I still feel the crunch of bone through my arm, the ghost of the killing blow I have so recently dealt, and it is a dreadful thing to feel death in such close quarters; to literally tear the life out of a man – no matter how desperately he tries to tear your own away. It chills me, makes me sick to my stomach, and now we face a hoard of men running across the grass toward us and I know I have not the energy left to fight.

Even so, Legolas limps away with a grim set to his jaw that says he will continue... always he will continue. He throws my axe toward me in a practised movement so that it lands solidly, blade first in the damp soil beside me, then moves to gather his own blades. Despite it all, and despite that I have seen him come through far worse, I am not sure that he has this in him either.

Shutter seems resigned, grim, and the three of us come together. We stand shoulder to shoulder to face this new fight, resolute and ready.

And then we are saved.

Another knot of men come from the outward edge of our view, where it is obscured by the trees. They run a bit faster, a bit fresher, a bit angrier. They are more in number as well… all running toward the knot of enemy soldiers who quail and falter under this new attack. They slow down, brace themselves, forget us instantly and I straighten… turn my face to the sky in relief that I cannot put word to. Legolas sinks to one knee, Shutter begins to swear and wanders off a short way. Drops his sword in nerveless fingers.

We are rescued. These men are our own, our reinforcements, and they make short work of the fray. They slam into our attackers, start cutting them down like hay in the summertime, and each one of them wears a cloak of white.

~{O}~

When Captain Hob reaches me, he all but barrels me back into the mud. I am feeling flimsy right now, and was not braced for – nor expecting – the sort of embrace that would have me tottering around and trying to keep my balance. His relieved embrace is like being attacked all over again, but this time I endure it… I even laugh and pat him on the back. He draws away and his grin nearly splits his face in half, pats the side of my face a bit roughly.

"You are like an old hound," he tells me with a laugh. "You will chase until you drop, I swear it."

"Sweet Aulë, how was _this_ managed?" a voice calls out. It is Larke, poking the dead brute of a man with the toe of his boot as though he expects him to burst back into life at any second. I am glad to see him as well – glad to see each and every one of them – but I sober for heartbeat upon seeing Larke. There is something that I must tell him, something about Ren, and I do not wish to tell him.

Shutter catches my eye, and it is just a simple look… a brief gesture toward Larke. He speaks in just one movement, and any enmity I felt toward the thief is finally gone… washed away. He offers to tell him, offers to be the one that breaks such news, because he knows that I hold Larke in high regard. He will do it so that I do not have to.

I shake my head, but the look I give him is the most thankful I can muster. He shrugs.

"Is he well?" Hob whispers, missing the exchange entirely and canting his head slightly toward Legolas. The elfling has found himself a sturdy and old tree, has sunk to one knee with his hand resting upon the bole and his forehead upon the bark. The enormous man that lies dead at our feet has hurt him, more than he is willing to admit, and he was already well hurt. He is more red than green, today. He finds his centre, but it must be elusive indeed for him to need a tree to ground him. I sigh.

Legolas has shown me the voice of the trees, how they feel to him; an experience I will never forget for all of my days. A tree freshly waking in the spring must feel like a child stirring from sleep in his mind, fresh and happy and unencumbered by weariness or worry. He connects with the Song, the truest form it can take, and whilst I envy him for being able to hear it so clearly – all of the time, so effortless for him – I am glad of it right now. There was a time when it was barred from him, a time when he was strangled and cut off from the very thing that keeps him going so doggedly, and I leave him in peace. I leave him gladly.

Hob's eyes are wide and concerned – he knows nothing of what the elfling does right now, and he really does look quite horrifying, all about him blood and bruises and mud. I smile, because it seems I am the resident elf expert these days and I imagine how my father would think of such a thing.

"If I knew as much about elves as you think I do, friend Hob, then I would have gone home when I still had a chance. He will be well given a moment, but tell me what has happened to you? And why in the name of Mahal did you stop to change your clothing before you got here?"

He laughs, probably mostly due to a flood of relief, because what I said was not so amusing.

"We came upward through the city," he tells me. "We met back in the old house we started in, the only place in the lower circles that I could think of, and some of the men were already there. We nearly did not make it through at all, but even caked in a mountain of mud I was recognised and allowed past. The cloaks were still there, I was cold and tired of looking as a condemned man's guard, so it was a simple thing to don them. We made our way here as swiftly as we could.

"I imagined you might remain upon the second," Legolas says, finally joining us. He walks stiffly, held together tightly, but there is renewed determination in him. He reaches out and rests his hand upon my shoulder – I am not even certain he does that consciously any longer – squeezes gently and I grant him a look… one that tells him I know he is hurting, and I get something soft and careful in return. He knows my aches and hurts and exhaustion as well, because our link might not be the way it once was, but the ghost of it is still there, and we knew one another well before a shadow forced this bond upon us. It is a moment of connection, but it is all we need. I pat his hand, scratch at my beard and he steps away.

Legolas might be pale and bloodied he still manages to seem beautiful. He moves away, separates himself and finds himself, and his face seems cut sharp and hungry; his eyes burning all the brighter in the whiteness of his face. Damned elves. I probably look as though I have been fished out of a river three days dead. He drops his hand from where he has been protecting his hurts, schools his face so that there is nothing there at all.

"There is nothing to be done on the second," Hob admits, and I think he is getting used to my friend. He does not flinch, not at the way the elfling burns and intimidates just by his presence right now. He is like an approaching storm – perfectly still and full of the promise of violence. "The city guard fight there; they have sealed the circle, and none enter and nor do they leave. I could help in the fighting, but who else knows what happens here? Minas Tirith did not fall against the Necromancer, they certainly shall not fall under a coup, and absolutely not because a single captain was absent. What I _do_ question is why all of the guard are being drawn downward, pulled away from the top of the city."

"You can be congratulated on a rare show of mannish cleverness," Legolas murmurs… sounds bored despite that he has just probably insulted someone he qualifies as a friend. I am attuned enough to the elfling to recognise this as his attention being split rather than intentional rudeness – I sometimes suspect the elfling must concentrate on not being rude – and so I switch my focus to what happens around me.

There are men, perhaps twenty, all of them Whitecloaks and all of them far more weary than they seemed when they first came upon us. They sit and rest whilst they can, drink water and share the few sad little pieces of beef strip they have between them. Shutter has moved aside, gathering himself alone, but he catches my eye and sees Legolas and so returns to us. The elfling is distracted, his gaze far away, and then he twists his countenance into a grimace, turns to Hob and spits his next words nastily.

"He was meant to be safe," he snarls, and is in full blood again despite that I cannot imagine he has much left. The _laegrim_ elf within him is visible right now, and Hob takes a step back. "He was to be safe from this!"

Again, I ignore the rudeness and focus only on what has caught his attention so thoroughly… squint into the bright light until I can finally see.

A tiny figure, unbelievably small and fragile, running across the grass toward us. Uncoordinated, tripping and clumsy, but earnest and focussed. Sig comes running across the grass toward us, as fast as his little legs can carry him, and now it is my turn to swear.

The boy skirts the first of the bodies lying still upon the charnel field we have left behind us, sees them only as he comes upon them, staggers and stumbles but only for a moment. The lad recovers and runs again, runs toward us, and when he finally reaches our company Legolas is the first one to crouch down. The first one to hold his arms slightly from his side so that the boy can slam solidly into his embrace. Legolas flinches not at all, not for all of his hurts, because Sig is small and gossamer fine and Legolas cares for him. I am surprised by this show of the care he holds for the boy, but only for a moment; Legolas is not cold or cruel. He receives the boy and crushes him tightly to his chest, and if I see his eyes close for a moment then I ignore it.

He pulls the lad away, holds him at arm's length, softens that elven glare – which validates my suspicion that he knows full well how much we hate it – but I can tell that he is furious. Legolas burns with a hundred emotions and none of them are good, all of them are clashing. He shakes the lad gently. Sig is crying as quietly as he can and scuffs the tears from his muddy face angrily with the sleeve of what was once a fine shirt.

"Why did you come here, boy?" Legolas demands, but his tone is softer than I thought it might be. "You were to remain behind, safe and secret."

Sig cranes his neck, looks over at me as though he checks that I am here, and I come a bit closer.

"You should answer him, laddie. I would hear it as well."

His face twists, torn and upset, and I brace myself for the flurry of words this lad is so well accomplished at. He has seen far too much.

"The balcony of the Queen's library is very close to the next one… I climbed but I could not bring Moss. He is too large, you see, but you must not be angry with Master Gowry. He must empty his bladder quite frequently because he is old, and he did not see me leave. I wished only to see what happened; I swear that I would have hidden myself away and done no harm, I swear it, but there are so many men behind the walls! There is a lad in the kitchens that showed them to me, he is called Aben and he is my friend now, and I do not know the paths that well but they are full of men – men that should not be there. And then I heard shouting and the men were angry, and I thought it might be you, and so I ran. I ran and I came to find you to tell you of the men in the walls."

"Then tell us of them," Hob urges, grabbing the lad's arm although he is not unkind. "Tell us, where do they hide? If they walk where the King lives then we must go there immediately, and you must tell us!"

" _Go there immediately_?" Legolas scowls up at Hob, disbelieving. "With twenty men and a boy? You might care little for your days, but I wish to walk a few more upon these shores. Sig, can you show us?"

"You would bring him along?" Hob sounds outraged.

"Oh, not at all. Let us leave him in a hedge and have him shout this information, I am certain I can hear him from underground."

"Legolas," I chide with a tsk and a scowl, and he deflates as soon as he meets my gaze. It is quite a thing, to see Legolas go from his princely self – son of King Thranduil and Lord of the elven archers – to a tired and hurt elfling in just a breath. I ignore it, and he lets go of Sig. The boy sways as though he was perhaps leaning against the support, but then rights himself, pulls himself together. He turns toward Captain Hob.

"I can show you," he nods, although I know he is afraid. He shifts from foot to foot, his bright blue eyes shifting from Legolas' face and then to mine.

"You need do nothing laddie," I tell him quietly, my voice a bit more gruff that I had meant it to be. "We will be well without you."

"No," he disagrees. "Master Gimli, _no_ … do not cast me aside! You will not find them, you need me. I am frightened, but it is well… it is well. Edgar will not want me if I am cowardly, and I … and I …"

He begins to weep then, as though a dam has broken, and they are heavy sobs that wrack his frame. I am certain that it is nothing more than a cumulation of all that he has seen these last days, but it makes his unhappiness no easier to bear. He tries to speak through his tears, but gasps and bleats and makes some nonsensical sounds, and this time when he throws himself at Legolas my elfling has no idea what to do.

Legolas' face is obscured by Sig's mop of straw, but past that his eyes cut into me; panicked and horrified. No clue what he might do right now. He pats his back dumbly, and I shrug, and then Sig pulls away. His face twisted and dirty and resolute the way I have seen few adults.

"Edgar will not want me if I am cowardly," the child scowls at Legolas. There is a stream of something horrible and wet snaking from his nostrils, and tears form trails down his dirty cheeks. "He will not take me in, and I will not have a home. I want a home so very badly, and so does Moss. I will show you."

Legolas smiles at the boy, the full force of that damnable smile of his… the purest part of him showing through, young and kind as he so rarely shows. He cups the boy's face, swipes his tears with the pad of his thumb and pulls him close for just a moment. Pulls back and stands, but Sig winds his tiny hand into Legolas' – fragile bird bones held by scarred and hard archer's fingers.

"To the lowers, then," Hob nods, accepting that he is beaten.

"There is a thing to do first, though," I say, and I wish I did not have to. I wish more than anything that I did not have to tell Hob or Larke of Ren's betrayal, but if this child can school his fears then so can I. I can see both Shutter and Legolas looking at me, but I do not acknowledge it. I take a deep breath. "There is something that must be said, to you and to Larke, and I am sorry."

~{O}~

Larke crouches, his hand tangled in his hair and resting atop his head, his face twisted in grief.

I cannot look at him.

He has his friends with him, an arm across his shoulder and a man I do not know crouched before him, whispering words I cannot hear. It is cowardly to abandon him this way, but I do not know him that well and this is a moment he needs… a moment where he seeks comfort that I cannot grant. His best friend… his best friend in life has betrayed us, and I cannot even fathom how it must feel to him.

I glance at Legolas, remember the sight of him bleeding out upon the shore of the Anduin. I recall in a flash what I did to him, how that could possibly be considered any different, but I wipe it away. These are old feelings, an old discussion, something I should be moving past. It is hard, but I still see it that way some of the time. Legolas still trusts me, still cares for me exactly the same, but sometimes… sometimes.

Hob has aged a decade in a moment. He looks worn and sad, but when he comes to my side I can see him fighting it. Can see that he struggles to continue, and I can see a flicker of anger begin behind his eyes. That is good. That is the best thing that he can feel right now, and I do nothing to quell it.

"We must go," he murmurs.

"Will he manage?" I ask, gesturing toward Larke with little more than a head tilt. Hob's jaw tightens.

"Yes," he says certainly. "It is his rage rather than his grief that we must be concerned about, but not yet. He is a Whitecloak… we have been named by a prince and clothed by a lady, acknowledged by a king. We have no time to sit in grief and hurt; we will find Ren and ask him why he has betrayed his brothers, but until then we have much to do."

"I have a thought on that," Shutter says. He can be as silent as an elf when he wishes, but I heard him join us. He stands at my left, brushing my arm with a moth-soft touch – just enough to say he is there – and I glance at him. He seems unsure, or perhaps pensive… a strange look as though he says his words as soon as he has thought them. "I have been thinking, and… the Lady Briar. I think I might know where she has gone."

TBC

* * *

 **So, not only have I left you months without an update, but I give you something this short. Please hear me out before you kill me.**

 **This chapter was actually ready to post two weeks after my last chapter, waaaaay back. Unfortunately, my laptop then decided to get very poorly. I dutifully went out and bought a new one (omg you guys it's a thing of beauty) because I was due an upgrade anyway, sat down to move everything over that wasn't already stored on the cloud BECAUSE I AM AN ACTUAL MORON FOR DOING THAT and yeah. It died. It died a very dead death. Deady McDeaddy-Dead. Chapter 20 and the start of chapter 21 gone forever.**

 **I have spent the last month trying to re-write the chapter from memory, whilst writing chapter 21 by hand in a book, and I don't think it's as good as the original version of chapter 20 but it's done. I have grieved, I'm over it, but I'm sorry you guys have had to wait so long for a sub-standard chapter. Chapter 21 should make everything better because it's actually kind of brutal... it made me a bit uncomfortable writing it if I'm honest. Lots of feels there, you guys.**

 **I know I don't deserve it, but I'd love to hear from you. Simply because I haven't spoken to you guys in ages! Hope you haven't forgotten me, and that I might be forgiven.**

 **Have a great weekend :)**

 **MyselfOnly**


	21. Chapter 21

The kitchen garden is just as I recall it. Just as huge, and just as wondrous.

The storm forced water into narrow rivulets down the terraces, rivers and streams, creating dancing patterns in washed mud where it has receded. The sound of running water is gentle, melodic, and fat drops patter from a stand of fruit trees, all heavily laden with blossoms. Petals have been torn loose and drift upon tranquil, wide puddles that have formed in saturated ground – white feathers against fresh grass. It smells dark and earthy, fresh and clean, and new worm casts sit black within the bent leaves of the lawn. Birds peep and trill, one startles past us, and I hear the ponderous dirge of a honeybee nearby.

It has been a tense journey, creeping and inching through the lowers of the seventh circle from corridor to corridor as though we are thieves. Legolas has been invaluable, although I would never tell him as much – his elven senses enough to keep us out of sight and unnoticed by the intruders roaming the halls. They wander alone, one at a time, and we could probably have trimmed their number down but we have made the decision to remain as unnoticed as possible for now. We have spoken few words, by necessity, but Hob has asked Legolas where the assassin that was so intent upon our murder just last night has gone.

I am ashamed enough to have forgotten about Oren. In truth, I had not expected to find him there with Legolas when we exited the tunnels, and because my assumption was correct I did not think to ask where he might have gone. The answer is simple, in that Oren has gone to find his men and extract them from this rout, but I still kick myself for my lapse in attention. The Khandish man has been such a threat to us for so many days, his absence should be something I noticed, but it has simply been replaced by other things. Legolas is no longer concerned about his whereabouts, and I have become so accustomed to trusting him in such things.

When we emerge into the garden it is alarming, because after only a short time in the tunnels it is still a shock to burst upon such a concentration of life and green against so much sky. I pause, mainly because Legolas' relief and gratitude is strong enough to almost flatten me, but we are not all so smitten. Hob and a few of his men busy themselves with securing the door, for what good it will do us; Sig could probably break this door down unaided. They do their best though; dragging an incredibly heavy looking water trough to bar the way and propping it against the flimsy door. Sig helps, bless his skinny little arms, and the men praise him for his utterly useless assistance, but then we are all done.

It is as though we all deflate, our air exhaled in one breath that carries the strength from our hearts and out into the skies. Blue… it is so blue now.

I am too old to feel any shame in dropping to my bottom, now that I have a moment to rest. There are flagstones here, where the workers congregate and store their tools. For a moment I wonder whether it was sensible to plonk so gracelessly into a huge puddle but I realise that I do not care; the grass is also naught but mud and I am already soaked.

Since I have set a precedent, a number of the men follow suit. Legolas cups his hand beneath the water spigot, leaning over across the soak, drinks deeply and dunks his head beneath the ice clear spray that burst forth. I watch him scrub mud and blood from his face and hands, cup them and drink deeply, and suddenly I am more thirsty than I have ever been in my life. The spigot is an eternity away, unreachable, but Legolas hooks a rough wooden cup from where it hangs from its peg, fills it and brings it to me. Hands it over without even looking and I could kiss the pointy-eared idiot, but I do not.

He moves away, tells Sig that he is to drink as well. One of the soldiers lifts him so that he can reach, and the idiot child emulates Legolas by plunging his head into the water as well. A gasp of surprise escapes once he realises how cold the water is, and I think perhaps Sig will grow into someone exactly like Legolas. Eru help us all.

The elfling is stiff and sore, and although the others must see him as nothing but fluid grace I know the elf far better than any. He is hurting, pacing, probably unconsciously but he is frustrated and I can feel the ghost of his madness upon the edge of my mind. It is an itch, a moth bumping against a lantern, impossible to ignore.

I watch him carefully from the corner of my eye, although I try to seem as though I do not. He holds his hands out just the barest fraction and trails them in the brushing of the breeze, elegant, and I know that he reads so much in the passing of the air. So much more than I ever could. He tilts his face to the sun, a slight shift only, and he touches his fingertips to every living thing that he can; timothy grass and buddleia heads, rose and blackberry.

"Well," Hob huffs, scrubs his hand over a scalp gritty with mud and sweat. "What now?"

He blinks briefly at Sig, who is now wringing wet after his attempt to emulate Legolas, and who now plonks himself down in my puddle. Leans into me and starts to bite his thumbnail. Hob blinks, shakes his head, and shifts his gaze to Shutter, who is the reason we are here… the reason we have snuck through corridor and silent path, crept and crouched past interlopers whose ribs we would rather slide our blades between. Held our breaths in passageways we should be able to walk proudly through.

Hours of ghosting through a city that was ours just yesterday, but which no longer feels as ours… we are the intruders here. It feels wrong, and it goes against everything that we are. To walk as thieves and assassins when we are the exact opposite… it wears upon a man. Hob looks exhausted, worn.

"I will admit to some sense in a moment of rest, but we cannot remain here forever."

"Oh, I imagine we could," Shutter mumbles. He has gone from sitting to lying sprawled upon his back, eyes closed against the sky although I know he is awake. "I think we have plenty of food here, and I have never put that much stock in comfortable beds or warm hearths. Makes a man weak. Let them take the city."

Legolas snorts, but I cannot tell if it is amused or irritated or both. I feel nothing but agitation from him, and it grows by the moment. In all honestly, I am surprised he has remained as focussed as he has up until now; this lapse into the edges of his madness is long overdue and a heartening sign that he grows stronger by the day. A year ago this would be an oddity, completely out of character, but now… now I grow accustomed to listening to his whispering itch at the back of my head.

He stops suddenly, freezes in a way that has all eyes upon him. The elfling can certainly command attention at times; his presence is heavy, like a storm. Like his father.

"Whatever you are thinking to do, Legolas, simply do it," I sigh. He stops, pauses, blinks at me suspiciously.

"You do not wish to argue?"

"You will do whatever you think to do anyway, and I am too weary for wasting breath on futile things. If you suddenly drop dead though, know it to be your own fault. Your father knows you well enough not to hold me to blame."

He snorts again, but this time there is the slightest relaxing of the tension in him. Small, barely anything, and I think perhaps I am the only person that causes such tension in him. Good. I am glad. It is good for him to have to explain himself on occasion; his own men gave up on such things a very long time ago.

He stills again for a moment, because I am starting to imagine that elves can only do one thing at a time; thinking or moving, they have not the capacity for both. He reaches a decision then, strides certainly toward the barricaded door and drags the trough clear without any assistance at all.

The men complain softly – because if such things are so easy for him then he could have helped them barricade it in the first place – and they glare with as much effort as they can muster, which is not much. I roll my eyes, because I am quite sure that he has just done any small amount of healing he has managed, but it is Hob who speaks.

"Where do you go?" he demands.

"Nowhere for long," the elfling hedges. "I shall be back shortly."

"I will come," Shutter heaves himself upright.

"You will not!"

And the lad folds himself backward again with a strange huffing sound of acceptance. I am not certain he minds all that much.

"And what are we to do?" Hob raises his hands and lets them drop to his sides. "Perhaps a spot of gardening? We are soldiers, Whitecloaks as you have named us, and we need not be hidden away or protected by a single elf!"

It is a sign of Hob's own weariness and frustration that he has put voice to such a thing. He sounds childish, and I think he realises it as soon as he has spoken, but Legolas has neither the words nor the guile to deal with such an outburst. He glances at me and I sigh.

"Whitecloaks or not, friend Hob, you are not elves. He will do better as a shadow than one of a troop, and if he needed us then he would ask. You must also excuse that I speak for him; it is not rudeness but rather a lack of education. Sig's vocabulary is probably more refined than his; he is to be pitied rather than judged for it."

Legolas purses his lips, of all things, and I might find a pouting elf a lot more amusing were I drier or warmer or less hungry. It is the price I exact, when he looks to me for rescue at the most awkward times, and so I feel justified in having a measure of fun.

"I would rely better on a man who can speak his own words," Hob mutters, but it is more an attempt to hide his own annoyance. Whether it is toward Legolas or a more generic form of irritation I am unsure; I do not know him well enough. I also see the exact moment that the elfling decides to hold his tongue, to refrain from snapping at Hob, and I am of two minds as to whether it is weariness or an attempt to recover some ounce of elven mystery. It is probably the former.

Legolas turns to go, glances at me and comes to another decision. He pulls his blades free and turns them, hilt first toward me.

 _"_ _Hebo hen enni,"_ he murmurs, twisting his shoulder – the one that the mountain man all but twisted out of its socket not an hour ago – and there is a tightness to his face as he does so. I will hold onto them for him, but it does not go without notice that this is quite an honour. Legolas might divest himself of his blades because he cannot use them in the tunnels, and perhaps they pull on his hurt shoulder, but I recognise that no other elf would make that decision; they would wear them in any case rather than leave them behind. Legolas' blades are his most prized possession, but I cannot make anything of it. He catches my stunned gaze, gives me no moment to stammer out anything awkward or uncomfortable, and instead he smiles a guileless grin that has absolutely no place in this situation at all. It fades almost as fast, but it remains in those blue eyes and he has looked at me this way before. I ground him, and he needs grounding right now.

I think perhaps I grant him the same strength that I seek from him, but it is endlessly humbling to be needed this way… to be important to an immortal.

It is a moment, and we both need it. I grant him solidity and focus when he is nothing but madness and Song, he makes me feel important and necessary and I need that too. Everyone needs such things in their life.

He smiles again, I grant him something similar in return – far brighter and wider than I had imagined myself capable of – and Legolas looks then to Captain Hob.

"As to what you might do whilst I am gone," he addresses the Whitecloak Captain, his tone far more gentle than I had expected considering the turmoil that he is in. "Perhaps you should ask her?"

He gestures to the far right with little more than a tilt of his head, we follow instruction and look, and then Legolas is gone.

To our right, stepping out from the shelter of a bower where she has remained entirely hidden, stands the Lady Briar.

~{O}~

By Mahal I wish Legolas were here – the massive coward – because the air turns to molasses the moment that Briar appears.

We freeze as one, a scattering of silent faces; short and tall and thick and thin, all astounded. But then Sig tells us that he has to relieve himself – dancing on the spot as though we might not believe him – and it is difficult, after that, to remain serious.

Briar looks exhausted. Far more than any of us, though I am extremely doubtful that she has spent all night battling assassins and giants, and having mountains fall on her the way that we have. Her hair – usually so lustrous – is lank and tucked into a careless knot. She has circles beneath her eyes, her face pale, but it is not the Lady Briar's usual fairness that sets her aside. Her fire – the one that has so intimidated Legolas and begs such loyalty of her people – is dimmed, reduced somehow. It is this lessening of her spirit that makes her seem so weary to me, because the Lady Briar would be beautiful with a sack of cloth over her head.

She holds herself tight as a bowstring, and she does not wear her usual attire but rather the simplest of men's clothes. They make her look small, and she has never seemed small to me before now.

She stands alone before us, we stare right back, and it is only Sig's insistence that he _really must_ relieve himself that breaks the moment. Shutter says that he will take him to a suitable tree so that he might water it, which makes the boy laugh, and although his tone is as jovial as ever I see the look that our thief gives his Lady. Glacial… it freezes me to the core. Briar deflates all the further beneath it.

Shutter goes, she shakes herself free, and in a second she wears her mask again. The Steward of the Second stands before us.

"So," I address her, because no one else seems ready to do much more than stare uncomfortably. "How was your night? Ours was dreadful."

"Whatever you did, it must have been important indeed," Captain Hob joins in, recovering himself. "Quite important to leave us right when you were most needed. I am quite certain that it was not to come and hide in a garden."

"Of course not," she actually has the gall to sound offended. Sighs.

"In truth, I thought I might find him… find Fallon; might stop whatever this madness is. If my brother has come here for me, then I have no need for anyone to fight on my behalf."

"Ah, but they fight in any case, and they are scoundrels and drunkards fighting with staves and clubs," Hob scowls. "Your brother has attacked the city, your circle, and those who consider themselves stewarded fight because they think they must. Because they have become separate from the rest of Minas Tirith and hold no trust in the rest of us. They fight for you, and here you are – ready to hand yourself over to him. A martyr for the slatterns and pick pockets… a sacrifice that would almost make sense if your brother had shown any sign that he intended to leave again, once all this was done. He has made no public demand for your head, or for anything at all."

"What could you possibly imagine the outcome of this to be?" I demand, and I know that we are hammering at her but we are all angry. I can feel the Whitecloaks behind me, their eyes burning into the back of my head. She can withstand it. "Why attack the seventh, when he wishes the second? Why attack at all? A coup can be conducted far more quietly, and without incurring the wrath of the entire city guard. He must know that Minas Tirith would rally… that no matter his actions, armies have failed to take this city, and he has no army. This will be over in a day, no matter how many holes they scuttle into."

"I have thought on it," Briar admits. "I cannot be certain; I could not find him. I do not think he wants the second at all, I think he wishes it destroyed. If Fallon was not killed when the darkness first arrived, then instead he was taken captive, and I have wept at what he must have endured these years. Where has he been? All of this time… I could have searched for him, found him, saved him."

I cringe for a moment, try not to let it show on my face, because just for a heartbeat I hear Aragorn's voice in my ear – a ghost from just a few days past. A voice saying that he would burn the second to the ground. I know it to have been a bluff at the time – a feint to garner an audience with this very lady before me – but in honesty? I start to doubt that my friend is beyond such a thing, were he furious enough. If anything happens to the elfling – to me – then the second circle will be ash and dust before the sun has set again.

Aragorn is a great man, but he is a man of passion and emotion, and he loves Legolas dearly. Loves all of his friends, and I wonder if he loves us better than the ramshackle den of sin that skirts the city and besmirches the whole. I am not certain. Not truly. I wish Legolas were here, because he would know.

"I knew you would find your way here eventually," the Lady Briar continues. Her voice is quiet, tired, glad that we are here. I can see it in her face… cracks in the mask.

"You are fortunate there were any of us left to come," Shutter replies, clipped and curt as he returns. He waves his hand at the clustered men, slumped in exhaustion although they remain on their feet. "This is what remains of us. A few others might still live – we became separated – but so many have been wasted over such a _stupid_ thing."

I snort at that, and Briar's glance flickers to me. I shake my head, and I realise that I stand closer to Shutter than perhaps is natural. I grant him the support that I think perhaps I would need, were our positions reversed. I speak, and I hear nothing but disgust in my own voice.

"If the elf were here right now, hearing such a thing from you, he would walk out of those city gates and return to the forest, there to remain until he was ready to sail. He thinks little of men as it is, and Shutter is right. So many lives lost because of this."

"How certain are you of your brother's intentions?" Shutter asks. There is a furrow in his brow, a coldness upon him, and I am not sure that I like it. It sits upon his face as though it has been there many times, many times over a short life, and I think I prefer the buffoon. I think I prefer the inappropriate joviality and calmness of him. He reminds me of Idhren a lot, and right now I see it clearly enough to recognise it.

"No more or less than you might be," she snaps back at him in return. "You remember him just as well as I do; the boy we knew would never have done this. Where has he been, Shutter? For all of these years, where has he been? Nowhere good I am certain, and if I had been left for dead and lost everything… if my mind had perhaps been poisoned, or if I had forgotten love and remembered only that loss. If I had come to hate it… to hate such feelings and the memories, the city, the people that cause them… if it were me, and these things had happened, then perhaps this is exactly what I might have done in his stead."

~{O}~

We have little chance to digest what the Lady Briar has said, because it is at that exact moment that Legolas returns. And because it is Legolas, it is quite dramatic.

The little wooden door to our garden slams open, sending my heart up into my nose, and a man falls through it with a cry of pain. He slams into the ground, tumbles and tries to rise – to flee – but trips and falls again. He is nothing but blood and bruises, his face is a mess, and he looks absolutely terrified. He turns, sees us all blinking at him in surprise.

Unexpected arrivals seem to be a theme for the morning.

"Keep him away from me!" he cries. "He is a demon! You must keep him away!"

I sigh as the tattered and bloodied man scrambles back from the door, skidding upon elbow and heel. I gesture for Sig to join me, and he is frightened enough to do so willingly. There is nothing that I can do to protect the lad from this.

"What happens next, you are to watch," I tell him. He curls into the side of me, fitting perfectly, and I tuck my arm about his shoulder and pull him close. "You are not to be frightened, because there is nothing for you to fear, but you must learn. This is not the man that you are to become."

Legolas strides through the door like a spectre. A lithe figure, slender and whip lean, and he walks as though he has all of the time in the world, because he is one of the very few that does. He steps over the ruins of the door, cold as the winter, and the man scrambles backward upon his elbows. His eyes are wide – I can see all of the white around them – and I can understand why.

 _Laegrim_ elves have a place inside of them capable of such cruelty. I know that it is there; I have seen it before, and whilst I have no stomach for it myself I know that they do not see things the way that I do. It is simply how they are. A wild dog can be vicious. The summer can be kind but can also birth the most violent of storms, and the forest in the winter is cruel. Wood elves are barely out of the woods, barely even a moment away from the wild at any time, and they hear the Song so clearly… they reflect it like starlight upon midnight snow fields.

Legolas will torture a man to get answers, if he is pushed far enough, and he has certainly been pushed. Considering the last few days that I have lived, in all honesty I cannot find it in myself to muster up the outrage I know that I should feel.

I wonder what has become of me, sometimes.

Hob moves forward as if to stop this, because he is a far better man than I am, but I still him with just a look. He pauses, and although I know it wars within him, he knows just the same as I do; Legolas cannot be stopped right now, and he only puts himself in danger by trying.

Legolas reaches the man upon the ground and kicks him savagely in the ribs, sending him rolling across the flagstones with a yelp. Continues to walk, reaches him again, yanks his head up by the hair and breaks his nose with a sharp blow. Drops him, choking and sputtering with blood, and stamps upon his leg so that his knee snaps in the wrong direction.

The man screams, a shrill and awful sound, tearing his own throat raw. Weeps and spits blood, mewls in pain, and all the while Legolas says nothing at all. He stands silently over the sobbing man, bird eyes cold and calculating – emotionless.

I feel sickened, horrified, but there is a small part of me – a very small part – that gets a small measure of enjoyment from this. I tuck Sig further into my side – he quivers beneath my arm – and I watch the Legolas that I never knew… the Legolas that came long before I did. The Legolas that he still is, deep inside.

The man snarls at the elfling through bloodstained teeth. Spits terrible words, visceral and cruel. He is quite young, if weathered and lean, and I can tell he has seen much of battle. Hard times indeed, and much of death.

"Where?" Legolas asks softly, quiet enough for his voice to almost be lost.

"He will kill me," the man spits.

"I will kill you," the elfling promises, and there is such certainly and such coldness in his tone I shudder to hear it. I can hear the men behind me starting to shift and fidget in discomfort, and I wonder if many of them had started to consider the elfling an ally… someone they might approach and pass the time of day with. Perhaps some of them already have. I do not imagine that will be happening again after this moment. "How long the killing takes… that is up to you. Where?"

The man curses again, Legolas flows forward, grabs his upper arm and twists it sharply to one side. I hear the crack of his elbow. Legolas does not stop there.

He pulls his hunting knife free and severs the tendons in the man's arm, and this time his screams are that of a wounded animal; raw and afraid and terrible. Agonised.

"Where?" Legolas asks again. Just as soft, just as flat.

"Eru preserve us, Legolas!" I breathe.

Larke stands, grim and pale, but he looks determined rather than horrified. He strides over to me, gives me a look that could have melted the beard off my face if I were brave enough to meet his eyes, and he grabs Sig by the arm. Takes him away from this perhaps a bit more roughly than the boy deserves. Larke is a far better man than I am. I am starting to think that most are.

I glance at the man – nameless and broken and ragged. I snarl, but perhaps I am mostly angry at myself.

"Answer him, for the love of Mahal; I have no desire to see him tear you apart. It is lengthy and we are in a rush."

The man looks at me, grimacing through tears of pain, then looks up at Legolas. The elfling stands as he does sometimes – still as though he is not breathing – and I see cold hatred there upon his knife sharp face. Summer blue eyes burn glacier cold, and the silence does not last for long. Legolas grows impatient, breaks his stillness instantly and walks toward our hostage as though this is nothing to him… literally nothing. He pulls his hunting blade from his boot, twirls and readies it, casts his gaze up and down the prone form as though deciding upon where he will cut next. I see the exact moment in which this man breaks. Legolas will flay him to the bone if he must, and our captive realises it all in one moment.

"Stay!" he cries, "Stay your hand, and stop this – curse you all but I beg it! Monsters, all of you… _beasts!"_

"Monsters, aye," I murmur, "but we were peaceful before you came. Remember that."

"You would do better to cut my throat," he snarls, tears running down his cheeks. I feel a tickle in the back of my head, and it is the old Gimli; the Gimli that I once was. He whispers of the pain this man must feel, the fear and the pride, the isolation. That he was a child once and likely has a mother, likely has a sister or a brother, likely has a tale as to why he became the way he has. I brush it aside like cobwebs, because that Gimli never knew war the way I do. That Gimli never learned to silence such things, never realised the impossibility of reconciling what should be done with what has to be done.

"Have a care for your words," Briar says, approaching the sorry scene. She has changed, this last hour. She is no longer small, and a glimmer inside of me shifts in relief to see it. Legolas is not the only one whose strength I rely upon. "The prince will grant your death with little persuasion, and none of us will stay his hand or think another second on it afterward. We ask only one more time; where is my brother?"

The man pauses, just a beat, and I can see a lot warring in his eyes. It is the first time that I see real emotion there other than pain or anger, and in its place I see resignation. He folds, and although it is little more than an exhalation his whole body changes with it. He becomes hurt and smaller and miserable all in one moment, but the silence has gone on for too long. Legolas steps forward, quite casually and unconcerned, grabs the man's hand although he has to fight for it. The man begins to struggle; weakly and ineffectively because the tendons are cut on one arm, and the elbow broken on the other.

The elfling wrangles an index finger from the knot the man is trying to make of his appendage, slaps aside the other arm as he begins to shove and punch and fight. Legolas clamps his finger with hands that have drawn a hundred thousand bows – they are like iron – and he brings the blade forward quite casually, as though he chops off fingers daily. As though it is nothing to him at all. The man keens and squeals, and it such a broken sound I am starting to feel truly ill. Before, he was insolent and defiant and easy to feel hatred toward, but now he is different. He is broken already, now this is simply cruelty.

"No!" he shrieks, "no please, I beg it _stop_!" He tries to bat Legolas away, tries to fight him, but Legolas has already cut the tendons in his other arm and so it flops uselessly against the elfling's chest. Trailing more blood into his shirt, numb and clumsy. I fight the urge to close my eyes. "Stop it! The King is holed up in his quarters, not even so far from here, and we cannot gain entry but we barricade him within. Fallon… he wanted to make him furious, as angry as he could, and so he remains in the King's Throne room. You were outside of The Tower of Ecthelion… you were right there and yet you came here. Had you gone there instead you might have broken through and ended this, but you did not."

He grins then, a mad and twisted thing. Blood stains his teeth and his face is a wreckage of bruising and hurt, and he starts to laugh even as tears stream from his eyes. He leans forward, sways, spits blood upon the bright grass to his side.

"My entire family perished in Osgiliath," he hisses, snake mean and furious. "I never had a mother, but my father and brothers died to protect a ruin of a city for nothing. _Nothing_. I was offered a chance for retribution and I took it gladly. I hope this city _burns_ , I hope it is nothing but ashes, but in lieu of that I will accept blood for what I have lost."

He opens his mouth as though to say more, and I can see nothing but vitriol in him rising and burning and choking him. Instead, Legolas breathes up behind him like a ghost and slides his hunting blade into the nape of his neck and the back of his skull. Severs his spine in an instant, and the man flops dead upon the ground as though he has been cut from the world entirely. He lies, flat eyed and breathless upon rain damp soil. In the distance I can hear Sig begin to cry.

I look to Legolas, and he returns the gaze. Challenges me, stands without remorse with his blade still in his hand. Stares without blinking and waits for recrimination, but I give him none. It is the worst I have seen of him for a long time… a long time indeed. I think perhaps the last time I saw such coldness in him was the War itself, and for a second there is ash and smoke and blood between us – screams of the dying and the scent of blood.

He waits for my judgement and does not find it. He is ready for battle of another kind, and I think that this one might actually hurt him. Legolas thinks much of my opinion of him, I know that he does, and there is still enough of a link between us… enough for him to have certainly felt the horror and disgust I feel right now. I am exhausted in my heart and mind, but I cannot fight with him right now. In truth, I think that he has done what we all know was needed, and what none of us would have been prepared to do. As Shutter was prepared to be the villain for me earlier, Legolas has once more dirtied his _fëa_ so that we did not need to. It is lucky that the _fëa_ of a _laegrim_ elf is already so pure, because his would have been shredded into nothing long ago otherwise.

He sees this in me, sees that he has no battle here, and he finally diminishes. Relaxes. Sheathes his blades. Blinks a slight wetness from his eyes in relief, although it could easily pass for a gesture of weariness. He tucks things away, wipes his bloodied hands upon the sodden grass and takes a moment to breathe the damp morning air.

I watch him, and I am careful to lock my thoughts as tightly as I can. My mind continues upon its path, and whilst I understand why he has done this thing – this horrible thing – I wonder if he deserves the chance to centre himself after this. He should feel sickened, he should carry the burden, but then I remind myself what Legolas is. I cannot judge him by my standards… and yet I still do. I do.

"Hide that thing," Hob speaks up, finally. He clears his throat because his voice sounds thick and small, and when he speaks again it is clear and strong. "Take it out of my sight."

 _Sig's sight_.

I turn away as two of his men grab the arms and legs of the body before us, drag it away where it can no longer accuse us. I catch Hob's eye by accident, and he looks perhaps just the same as I do; sick and dour, pale. He closes his face so that it shows nothing at all, but when I look to Shutter I see none of it. I see satisfaction, a set jaw, and I know that he has already felt far too much this morning. He glances at the elfling, and I see a thousand thoughts cross his face. Curiosity and respect, fear.

"So we have two places to be, and only twenty five of us in total," Larke speaks up. I think he is recovering from earlier; recovering enough to involve himself again, at the very least. "Do we split ourselves further?"

"No," Legolas returns to us. He is back to his usual self – or at least the part of him that functions well with others. He is not cruel and murderous as he has just been, or the insane nightmare he has become recently. He is not the joyful and young forest spirit I know that he can be either, but he is the Legolas that most people know. I sometimes wonder how many masks he wears, and then I wonder if I will ever get to know the whole of him. They are not different parts of Legolas… all of this is him. All of it.

"We go to the King," he says, and his tone says that he will not be arguing about this. "I say this not as his friend, but because he is the most important person in this city. His safety is paramount."

"If he is barricaded in his quarters, then surely he is safe enough?" Larke points out.

"Aye, but would you wager on such a thing?" I ask. "Safe in his rooms, or in danger with us, King Elessar was a warrior long before he was a King. We need him, and if it helps to think of him as a Ranger instead then you should do so. Queen Arwen is an elf, for Mahal's sake. Have you ever met an elf that could not handle a blade better than any man?"

"I know precisely one elf," Larke points out with a frown, but Hob holds his hand to stay him.

"I agree with the prince," he says. "We were soldiers, all of us, and our duty is to this city. The safety of our King is paramount, and I will not leave him a hostage of our enemy."

"How are we enough?" Shutter asks. His tone says he does not speak to be difficult, it is a very real question. I cast my eyes around at our party, and beneath my scrutiny I see men straighten and school themselves to seem far less hurt or weary than they are. They fool me not at all, and Captain Hob scrapes his hand over his shorn scalp with a sigh. There are too few of us… far too few.

"If only we knew where the others have gone to," he mutters to himself. "If there are any of us left, we could make good use of them right now."

"I think our concerns on that might be answered," Legolas says, and it is a mysterious enough statement to have all eyes upon him. He has that strange look, distant, his eyes focussing upon nothing at all and his head tilted as if he listens. I know that look, and I wait to see what he has heard or seen, been told by the passing of clouds, or however he does it.

We wait a while, long enough for it to become uncomfortable, but then the elfling turns just in time to see Oren striding up the staggering and awkward steps. Up from the lowest terrace of the garden, up toward us, and I swear to my ancestors I am quite done with people who appear out of the air. I thought I might experience less of it with only one elf this time, but it seems not so. The only place those steps lead to is open air and a drop from the edge of Mindolluin… how he has reached the terrace is the guess of anyone. I cannot find it in myself to be cross though, because behind him there are perhaps another fifteen men.

I struggle to my feet, Legolas grips my arm like a vice, and I stop with my heart hammering in my throat, fear making my arms numbs and leaden. I glance to him and he is calm, relaxed. Almost pleased.

The Khandish assassins come to us.

TBC

* * *

 **Hey guys, really good to see you again. Genuinely. This week has been horrendous.**

 **I did say that this chapter was a bit brutal, and I took a bit of a chance with showing this side of Legolas. A part of me kind of enjoyed it, because I - personally - knew this was in him, yet I've never actually shown it before. It was uncomfortable to write, but I'm weirdly happy with it. I really, really want to hear your thoughts on it. I tend to get good feedback when he's being Princely!Legolas but I've never shown him as War!Legolas to this degree before. I legitimately need to speak to people about this!**

 **I've had a few messages recently asking if this fic will be continued, so I wanted to address this quickly. I WILL NOT abandon this fic, absolutely not. The chapters are taking me a bit longer recently due to RL (will come to that shortly) but writing is my sanctuary, my escape, my relaxation. I apologise for the gaps between some of the chapters, but please bear with me. I always come back! A random prompt here and there are sometimes the catalyst for me to actually pull my finger out and post, so please continue to message me. You might be the person that instigates the chapter!**

 **Since you last heard from me I have been put under threat of, fought off, and yet again survived redundancy in the company I have been working for since I was 18 years old. I am now a 35 year old manager of a department I love, and damned good at what I do. I am invested in this place, so this has been challenging... especially considering how much money they were offering me. I have given up a life changing amount of money for a much more difficult job, I've been living off caffeine and cigarettes to the point that I can't remember the last time I blinked, but I can honestly say I am loving it. Literally loving it.**

 **OMG I AM SO EXHAUSTED.**

 **Anyway, enough of that. I actually have a oneshot brewing at the back of my head that's been there since the spring and is finally starting to take real shape. A lot of you will know that I tend to take a break over Christmas, but at the moment my chapters are so far apart that you probably wouldn't even notice. The oneshot might be your Christmas present, who knows?!**

 **Really would love to speak to you guys in the reviews, love to hear from you, and hope you have a great weekend :)**

 **MyselfOnly**


	22. Chapter 22

They look different in the daylight.

I have known them only in darkness, but their long coats and hoods and masked faces seem no less ominous in the light. If anything it is worse to see them this way, because I cannot blame their darkness on the absence of light, and instead I must realise that it is something else. Something that I have little experience with, because they are not creatures of darkness – they are men, I know that they are men – but they do not feel like men.

Oren has brought few of the khands with him; those few that are truly his own. These are the men that he returned to the city for… the ones he cared enough to extract from this mess. They are his own, each of them with the same honey gold skin and dark eyes, the same cowl and mask that covers everything but those strange eyes of theirs.

Last night I was fighting them, last night I saw a good number of them buried beneath a landslide and felt nothing but gladness. Now I am quite relieved to see them.

The Whitecloaks ready themselves, a few hands stray to the hilt of their blades, but Legolas holds one hand up and moves beyond them. Stands as a single and solitary figure at the top of the stairs, and although he is bloodstained, damaged and weary he still looks quite fine there. The sun finally breaks past the mountain and into the garden, lighting him golden and bright, and I move to stand just behind him, not so far away. I know that Hob and the Lady Briar follow me.

Oren reaches the step just below Legolas, stops, and his men do the same. Shadowed figures upon steps that cut through fields of green.

There is a very long silence, but it is not awkward. Oren reaches up, pulls down his mask, and his face softens just a fraction. The dawn light casts soft upon a young face that has seen far too much, and I notice again how few years he has, and how unexpectedly fair. He pushes his hood down as well. His hair is a sable sheen, tied carefully back, although a few strands have fallen free. Those strands of black hair across his brow and jaw do more to humanise him than anything else.

"You spared my life," he says. His voice thickly accented and smooth. "You stayed your hand when you bested me."

"You caught me when I fell," Legolas counters. "You owe no debt."

"After what I did?" he asks, soft and pushing at the same time. He and the elfling have locked eyes, and a part of me is curious as to who might blink first. It is unlikely to be the elfling; I am not entirely convinced that elves need to blink at all.

"What I did to you, I did for money, and I am shamed by it. I was honourable once… you have awakened the memory of it."

I feel something flinch inside. So much has happened – so much in such a short time – and I had forgotten.

Oren tortured Legolas.

Oren held him in chains deep in a mountain – the worst thing that can be done to a wood elf – and had him beaten, each blow written in red and purple upon his skin. I saw it, and I had forgotten. It is a testament to the life that I lead that such a recent thing can drop into memory, and I fight the urge to fidget, suddenly uncomfortable. Legolas stands fast.

The elfling wears the mask of a captain of his people, somewhere between my Legolas and the mad one. Experience and grace and age… the warrior, the prince. But there is also a glimmer of gold inside of Legolas that always shines through, no matter what mask he wears. It is not the first time I have observed that my friend can see the deepest heart of men. Not always, but when it matters most.

The khandish assassin sees that part of him, reads my friend so easily. It took me a long time to understand this elf – neither of us understood the other for an endless time – but something inside of these two speaks to the other. Oren nods, shifts his head only slightly to one side… a signal of some kind to his men.

They stand in no ranks, in no particular order, but I am certain that they are exactly where they mean to be. Still as elves, watching everything that we do, but at Oren's signal they shift as though a breeze has rippled through them. Barely anything at all, yet it breaks a spell.

As one they reach up, and each pulls down the masks that cover the lower half of their faces and their hoods. They breathe, shoulders droop slightly, and one or two stretch stiffened muscles. In an instant they change from mysterious and frightening ghosts and become simply tired men. They drop their guard, because if Oren has told them that they are safe then this is all that they need. I do not think I have seen such discipline and trust since I left the elves of the Greenwood… the _laegrim_ of the wood take their cues from the elfling just the same. It is the same unshakable trust, the same dedication.

"Well," I step forward. I am done watching these two stare at one another; it is all far too dramatic for a sodden dwarf who has not had his breakfast. I can hear that I am brusque, a jarring lump of a creature after the dangerous grace I have just seen conversing, but I still have my softness. I shift my hand in an imperceptible movement as I come alongside the elfling… brush the cuff of his sleeve to say I am there. He flashes me the briefest look that says nothing to the outside world, but much to me.

"I suppose we should catch you up on a thing or two. Who would you count as your second, Master Blade?"

Oren gives me a look… he has given it to me before. It is a glimmer, barely anything, the same range of emotion as I would attribute to a log but I am quite used to reading emotion upon unreadable faces. I see it, and I really do think I am the only dwarf he has ever met. He seems to find me quite fascinating. He would probably be the first.

Oren makes the slightest movement of his hand – I am reminded of Thranduil, oddly – and one of his men steps forward.

He is taller, thinner, older. His hair is not as long, it brushes his jaw, but it is threaded through with grey and hangs loose. His eyes are that of a falcon, his face cragged and worn, but he was beautiful once. I can see it. He frightens me though. All of these men do.

"This is Jin," Oren says.

I wait for more, but that is all that we are getting. I blink at them, they both stare right back, and I sigh. Elvishness in a man. Whatever next.

"Larke will tell you all you need," I say, raising my voice just a fraction, enough for the Whitecloak to hear. He has been paying close attention and rises easily, slips through the throng and steps forward.

He is a good choice; the lad is a captain in the making. He is steady and silent enough to complement these odd men; strong willed and far cleverer than any of us excepting maybe Shutter. They give me the chills, these assassins, they truly do, but Larke seems implacable even in this situation. He and Jin look to one another, nod, walk off at a clipped pace to somewhere more removed where they will discuss the placement of their men. Hob claps Larke upon the shoulder as he passes but does not watch them go; he trusts the lad completely.

Oren takes the moment to send his men toward the water fountain. There are Whitecloaks sat there upon the stone wall, and most of them rise and move away, except one. Bless his gruff and ornery heart I do not recall his name – Ithir? Ithgir? – watches the new arrivals with unreadable eyes, and then offers a wrap of salted beef to the assassin closest to him. He is built like an outhouse, sturdy and lined, grey haired and experienced, but he scowls at the new additions in the way of soldiers. The Whitecloaks fought these men last night, but he cannot choose his battles or hardships. Right now, they are allies.

Men of poorer character might feel hate, cling to aggression, pick a fight to make a point of dominance, but not these… not the Whitecloaks of Gondor. The guards and the khands are different, could not be _more_ different, but they are allied now – or at least, their captains are allied. They fight where they are told to fight, they bleed for the banner that they march beneath, and when their alliances match, then they are all the same.

The khand narrows his eyes in suspicion, the Whitecloak pops a strip of beef into his own mouth to show it is safe, and the assassin relaxes. Takes the food. Sinks upon the wall next to the man who has fed him. They do not speak or do anything else, do not look at one another. They take the moment whilst they can, safe that no matter what banner they have marched beneath, right now it is the same.

I feel an odd sense of weight upon me then, exhaustion coming upon me like storm clouds, but I have no time for it. Sig is there, tugging at my hand insistently. I look down and the lad is wide eyed and afraid, glancing at the assassins that have just joined our group. Shutter comes to me.

"He thinks they have come to take him away," he says lowly, just for me. "Thinks they will take him as they took the Prince. He is confused."

I scowl at him, because the thief probably could have explained this to the lad just as easily, but he shrugs and glances at the boy – a look that tells me that I am better suited for this. Because yes, a dwarf who has never known anything but sleeping in woods, the horrifying and intimate experience of bathing in brooks with the fish, and fighting battles that I cannot win is absolutely the best choice to reassure a child.

I cast my gaze around looking for someone better suited, but the only contenders are no better than I am… worse, in some cases. _Most_ cases.

I crouch before the lad, meet his eyes, and ask him:

"What are you frightened of?"

"I am not frightened," he tells me, affronted, but his face betrays him. He is quite frightened _. "These men are odd,"_ he whispers, but he has much to learn of whispering; it carries far enough to have a few dark eyes turned in his direction. "You would be friends with them now?" he asks, and there is much in his voice… the slightest twist of betrayal. He does not understand.

"When you are grown," I tell him, "you will understand better. Now you must trust us, laddie. These men have become our allies for now, and you must not go anywhere with them or listen to them without coming to me or Shutter, Hob or Briar or if you absolutely must then the Prince, but you must trust in us. Things are sometimes confusing."

"Grown folk make no sense at all," he snorts, a moment of fire. I wonder at what the future holds for this lad, and I have no doubt at all that people will know his name one day. He truly is a wolf cub. "If you ask that I trust in you then I will, I have so far, but I think you make a poor decision."

"Unfortunately, young Sig," Shutter _finally_ jumps in. "Unfortunately we cannot always choose our allies. Sometimes, no matter how hard we wish for it and how hard we work for it, what we wish to achieve is beyond us, and we must make strange bedfellows."

"These bedfellows have been trying to kill us," he points out. I have nothing to say to that. It is a good observation for a child so young, and I start to wonder on it myself.

"We have, little Whitecloak," Oren comes up. Sig shrinks back, but I can tell instantly that he likes being called a Whitecloak. He glares at Oren with hard little eyes, and a face that judges us all and sees us all far clearer than any adult. "Are you to join us?"

Oren and Sig face one another down – a street orphan and an assassin – but this is the best thing that Oren could have done. He speaks to the boy as though he is one of us, not a child, and Sig responds to it quite well. Too well, if you were to ask me, which no one has.

"If you hurt my friends, I will be very cross," the lad says. "They have given me a home and been so nice, and no one has ever been nice before, and I _will_ live with Edgar on the sixth circle… I will even learn numbers so that I can live there, I wish for it that much, so if you ruin it I will be angry. My dog will also be angry, and he is a big dog."

Oren blinks at me.

"He _is_ a big dog," I agree with a shrug. Oren crouches before the boy, holds his hand out.

"My people make promises," he says. His accent is musical and pretty, catching on the common tongue the way it does with Legolas… not _quite_ right. "When we make a promise it is shameful if it is broken."

"All promises are that way," the boy scowls, and things are so simple and so clear to him.

"You are quite right," Oren smiles, the first real smile I have seen from him. It is a good smile, and whilst it is not warm or charming it makes him seem more like us. More real. "This is different, though. If I break an oath then I must change my name, can never see my family or go home ever again. I will have died in their eyes, and they will grieve for me but never speak my name again."

"That is… a trifle harsh," Shutter looks horrified, his brow rucked up terribly. Oren flits only a feather of a glance at him, but there is a lot to say in it. Shutter would break a blood oath to get himself out of paying for a meal.

Sig sticks his tiny hand out with a scowl, one that speaks loudly of how important this is to him. We sober, because he is very serious right now, and it is only right that we take him seriously.

"You will help me find Edgar," he says. "Because he is not here, and I cannot find him without help from grown folk. He will know what to do when we find him… he always knows. And you will also make sure that we get to live here, because me and Edgar and Moss… we have nothing else, and we have not been very happy before now but we will be happy here. I know that we will. If you swear your most important and serious oath, the trifle harsh one, then I will help you. Although I will not hurt anyone. Edgar will not want to be my new brother if I am to become like you."

He glances at me, at Shutter, at Legolas… something falters in him.

"I do not think I will be like any of you," he says honestly. "I will be brave like you, and I will help people just as you help them, but… not _as_ you do. Not like this. I think you can all be very unkind and cruel, and I do not wish to grow into a man as you are men. Perhaps it is because you are not men."

I could weep. I could honestly drop to my knees right now and sob like a child out of shame, and even Oren seems taken aback for a moment. He nods though, cards his hand through his hair so that more of it falls loose, but his jaw is like granite. I think this child has affected the assassin as well.

"Then I swear," he says solemnly, shakes the boy's hand, and then it is done. Oren rises, glances at Legolas for a moment, but the elfling is studiously ignoring the lot of us although I know he has heard every word. If he feels shame the way I feel it, then I see none of it in him. The fact that he is as emotionless as the starlit sky right now says to me that it certainly affects him, that he is stung the same as we are.

"We should go," Hob clears his throat. He has stood a respectful distance away, but now none of us know what to say or how to act and so he steps in. "We go to the King, and then to the Tower."

"The Tower?" Oren asks carefully. I realise that he knows little of what we have found out, of what we plan, because much has happened in an extremely short period of time. Jin and Larke return to us as if summoned, and I do not think they realise that they walk in perfect step with one another.

"We are taking this man to the King?" I hear Briar murmur to Shutter, who has definitely not forgiven her quite yet because I feel him stiffen beside me at the sound of her voice. Her silence thus far speaks much of her guilt, but a woman like the Lady cannot remain at one side for long and she seems doubtful. I feel it as well. I cannot trust Oren, certainly not after only a day of alliance, and it is _Aragorn_ for Eru's sake… I would risk nothing on his safety. Not one hair on my own head.

"You have a different thought?" Legolas asks, almost frightening me out of my skin, but I am well accustomed to Legolas appearing nearby when he was only recently far away. Briar looks to him thoughtfully, her eyes considering.

"There are more of us, now," she points out needlessly. "Our forces can be split."

"We were too few only a short while ago, splitting us now that we are of larger numbers puts us right back as we were," Hob points out.

"Aye, but we will be in the place that we need to be… both of them."

"You would be comfortable with the assassins undertaking such a thing without any of us?" Shutter frowns. "With no eyes or ears of our own ensuring things go just as we would have them?"

"No," Legolas shakes his head. I am surprised, although perhaps I should not be; he might see Oren differently to how we see him, but there is no trust. "We should remain together."

"We will arrive at the Tower too late to do anything at all!"

"We will arrive at the Tower when we arrive," Legolas repeats, iron in his voice.

"Our King is not your King," Briar fights, and I start to wonder why she is so insistent. Her eyes flash dark and hot, but the elfling is impassive beneath it and this only seems to irk her more. "You wish only to find your friend."

"You would accuse me of making decisions based upon emotion?" he asks her carefully, and his tone is measured and cool but there is a lot said without any words at all. She flushes, then seems all the more annoyed by it. She bares her teeth for just a moment but realises that he is not to be swayed, and that he has the support of our cluster, such as it is. Legolas has done nothing for us to doubt him, done nothing but fight and bleed and strive to keep us all walking through these dreadful few days. Briar has lost much of that support in her actions recently, no matter the reason behind them. She accepts her defeat with ill grace, but hides it behind stone. She nods, turns upon her heel, and retreats to where Sig has been taken away by one of the soldiers; distracted from this nonsense by the men who have taken him into their care.

It is not planned, but Legolas, Hob and I all turn to Shutter at the same time. Watch him expectantly until he sighs – turns his gaze to the skies for a moment and then follows her with a huff.

"Prepare yourselves," Hob raises his voice – making me jump again – and it breaks a spell that has fallen upon us. The Whitecloaks shift and stir, take a last drink, begin to rise and twist and stretch the stiffness that has seeped into their bones. Oren has kept himself out of our conversation, stood still and to a respectful distance as though he is naught but a statue or a coat stand, but now he turns toward us like a sapling in the wind and locks his honey eyes with the elfling. A wind catches wisps of ebony hair and I wish he would tie it back properly.

"We go to find the King," the elfling says, barely raising his voice, although they are not quite close enough to one another. We have all fallen away again, for a moment it is the two of them and none other stood here. "We will find him, and then we will go to end this, and if you raise a blade or even your voice at King Elessar then you will not feel the hand that ends you. I will slaughter every one of your men, and I will feel no remorse. You are mayflies to me… nothing."

"I believe you," Oren nods. "I have made an oath and I intend to keep it."

I think perhaps I should be more concerned over the elfling's recent habit of both threatening, and actually carrying out, fairly vivid forms of violence toward men, but a part of me is not that surprised if I am honest. His patience is wearing thin with the _edain_ , especially after the last year we have lived, and it is certainly effective. We will speak of it later, I fully intend that we do, but for now I am simply weary enough to let him run loose – to some degree – and enjoy the passage granted by it.

Legolas glances at Sig, who has been hoisted upon the shoulders of a particularly large Whitecloak and is smiling brightly. Looks only for a heartbeat and then away, turns from Oren to say that he is dismissed, and it is perhaps one of the most cutting things he could do. In that movement he has put himself above the assassin in the difficult and convoluted hierarchy of our strange group. I have just a moment to wonder with some curiosity as to where I stand within it before Legolas hooks his fingers lightly into my sleeve… pulls me aside.

It is barely any pressure, barely a tug, but I follow because of it. Legolas has never seen me as anything but an equal, and sometimes I am reminded of how precious that is – how different things could have been, and how far we have come with one another.

We move slightly aside, but we have as much privacy as we can get. It feels right for a moment, just he and I, and it feels as though we are removed a thousand times from the preparations around us. The men ready themselves to leave, but for a moment Legolas and I are an island of calm. The elfling turns his back to the throng – a foolish way to stand if he were anything other than an elf – and I see his walls fall away in an instant. I am the only one that can see his face, just for a short time.

"Torturing men in front of children," I say, because I need to, and this is quite a perfect opportunity. "A common thing in the Greenwood?"

"Almárean would be just as disappointed as you are right now," he tells me, "but Almárean never truly understood. You will never truly understand. And it makes it no better but the boy will grow to be a far better man because of it. I must take solace in that small part. We will speak of it Gimli but not right now… you must watch the Lady Briar."

I am surprised, and I do not try to hide it. I say nothing though; I let him continue.

"Something is not right, I cannot put it to rights, and my head is… it is tangled right now. Too much has happened and I am too weary, too hurt, it is all too loud and I cannot focus. I must watch Oren, I cannot watch her as well. I am alike to him, but you always saw the _edain_ far clearer than I have; you will see what I cannot."

"See better than an elf?" I jibe, because he is exposing himself raw to me right now and I must make a joke of it, if only to make it easier for him. I pause, he stands in silence, and after just the briefest moment I see him relax… a smile forms across his face. Like sunlight cast through bough and leaf he smiles, reaches out and rests his hand upon my shoulder for a moment. He takes strength in my presence, I lean a fraction of my weight into him, and then it is over. We do not need a Shadow granted link to speak without words, we never have.

He clears his throat, and I shift back to carrying my own weight.

"I will," I nod. "But one thing, Legolas. If Aragorn is unhappy that we have come to rescue him when he likely needs no rescue, and when his city is in peril, then this idea is entirely yours. Hob can be decommissioned, Shutter will scuttle back into the woodpile with Briar in tow and I am naught but a tired dwarf. You are significantly more likely to survive his wrath, and so you must throw yourself upon his anger for us. I will remember you fondly… Eru, if it is heroic enough a sacrifice then I might even make a statue in your memory."

Legolas laughs, a true laugh… bright and gossamer soft, and I feel as though a weight lifts from my shoulders at the sound of it. He gives me a look that says much, much of the fondness that he holds for me, and I reach out to clap him upon the shoulder.

"Come, my friend," I push him gently back toward our ridiculous army of children and thieves, constables and assassins, all gathered in a kitchen garden. "We have tarried long here, longer than we should have, and I think our breakfast might well become supper at this rate."

I keep my hand upon his shoulder as we move back toward our men, and so I can feel the tension returning to him. I hold it there just long enough to feel it; the rigidity and bowstring tightness of muscle and sinew return, and I am glad when we separate. I am suddenly anxious, far more than I was, because he has seen something and I have not, and I trust him. I hope that he is wrong, Eru I hope he is, but for now I wish only to remember his laugh, and so I drop my hand back to my side. He pulls himself tight, tall, gathered, and every man that he passes casts a glance in our direction.

It makes me feel out of place and strange for just a while; a sudden awareness of myself that washes across my heart and mind like a wave. They are in awe of him, because of course they are, but they are also afraid of him and they do not trust him entirely. They will follow him because Hob will follow him, and because he is a creature of legend and myth, but they do not relate to him any more than they can relate to the stars or moon. Walking beside Legolas, before men and beneath those whispering stares, I sometimes feel more alone than I ever could without another person around. They never know what to make of me, of us: of what we are, of our intentions. Legolas cuts a blinding figure wherever he goes because he is so odd, so different to all of us, but then there is me right next to him – a dwarf giving counsel to an elf, giving guidance, breaking through the ice and heavy years to bring forth those rare and wonderful laughs… an elf they will never know, but see from a distance.

This feeling… it never lasts, although I know that all of it is true. Every single part of it. It washes away and recedes, because it is this exact feeling that brought us together as brothers in the first. We were both alone amongst many, isolated within a crowd, odd beyond measure and never quite a part. Whether he walks at my side or I at his, we are alone together, and it is company enough. Strange company, aye, and infuriating and I cannot _stand_ him some days, but that is the way of things with brothers.

"Gimli, take the lead if you will," he calls to me, his tone commanding and clipped, and it gets my back up instantly because it was not a request at all. "A dwarf will do far better in rabbit warrens such as these. Larke you are scout if your captain will indulge; Gimli will have us lost and wandering these tunnels for all of our days."

I can almost feel my father glaring at the side of my head for letting an elf speak to me that way, but I blink and breathe and quash it down.

 _Brother… I have just thought of him as a brother… I meant it a moment ago and I must remember._

"Come," I raise my voice slightly, but I know that it carries. If I know anything about myself, it is that I can be loud. I heft my axe and twist tightness out of my neck – although it is a tightness amongst a thousand and it makes barely a difference – but the men look to me and finally come to muster. They are ready, and I am as ready as I ever will be, and so Larke and I lead them onward – back into the tunnels beneath the mountain.

~{O}~

Aragorn's chambers are intentionally deep, intentionally awkward to come to, quite literally for this very reason. No one wishes for the King of Gondor to have armed men come upon his bed chambers in secrecy, but it is secrecy that we need.

We find our way through the lowers with some success, because Legolas might have the better eyes and ears but he says that the stone distorts and twists the sound into uselessness, whereas I can _feel_ movement upon the stone. We avoid interaction with the intruders where we are able – I can keep us hidden and secret as they pass – but when it is not possible… this is when the elf and the assassin make themselves useful. They are shadows within the shadows, dispatching our enemies in lethal silence, and although it is _extremely_ slow going, we do fairly well of it.

There is one particular walkway, however, that we must navigate to get to Aragorn's quarters. It is wide and brightly lit, very long, and utterly _teeming_ with men who are not ours. There is no cover for us, no way to approach where we would not be cut down in an instant, no way that would give us the advantage. None at all. It is too long and open, too broad and brightly lit.

Sig has shown us yet _another_ tunnel – very short – that the servants use to carry bread from the main servant's corridors into this one. It is a tiny thing – dog-legged off another servant's corridor – and it is older, rougher, lower although I can walk it quite easily. It is clearly well traversed as it is not dusty or dirty at all, but the men complain beneath their breath the whole way and Legolas is a singing thrill of irritation in my mind the whole way along it. We are cramped together like ticks – elbows where elbows should not be and sword scabbards poking into fairly intimate places – hidden behind a single tapestry that covers a door-less opening. We are trapped here though… if we were to exit then we will find ourselves in the centre of a crowd of heavily armed men, all of whom would be delighted to kill us, quite thoroughly.

I would feel smug that I am quite comfortable in this tunnel when my freakishly tall compatriots are twisted over like gargoyles, but it is ruined by what I see outside of the confines we find ourselves in.

I twitch the tapestry aside, just enough to glimpse the corridor without, and there are perhaps thirty men at the end of the wide corridor – a hundred feet away from us at most. They stand idle, unaware that we are here and guarding the ornate and beautiful wooden doors to Aragorn's quarters. They bears the scars of their attempt at entry, a horrible shame as it is quite the feat of craftsmanship, but for now they simply wait. They scratch at their nethers, stare blankly in deep thought, speak softly between them. Even so, they are many and I know from past experience that I should not take them for granted. They are hard looking men, nothing doughy or slow about them. Scarred and weathered and serious.

I let the tapestry fall, we are in the dark, but my eyes are suited well to the darkness.

"We have nothing but surprise," Hob murmurs, a bare breath of sound that I barely catch. "They are too far from us though; they will be prepared long before we reach them. I imagine they are seasoned and strong men, to be guarding the King's door."

"I have a thought," Sig shoves and squeezes his way forward, and we blink at him in surprise. Idiot child that he is he takes the stunned silence for assent, and he lunges forward out of the tunnel and into the corridor before we can stop him. Legolas hisses some utterly foul language that Shutter matches, thankfully drowned out by the shout of alarm from outside of the tunnel. He has appeared so suddenly that I hope desperately no one has seen where he has come from, but I watch what occurs between the sliver of a gap between the tapestry and the wall, my heart hammering in my throat so much that it hurts. It takes everything that I have to stay where I am, and it is only because Sig is an arm length away that I remain so. I could grab him from here, and so I stay my hand.

The boy shouts to gather attention, something puerile that I shall be having words with him about. Laughs, turns around… pulls down his trews and shows the throng of enemy soldiers his tiny little rear end. Wiggles it in the air as though to emphasise whatever point he is making.

I would laugh, Eru I feel a grin form upon my face whether I wished it there or not, but the child's sudden indecent exposure has the men at Aragorn's door shouting angrily, and running toward him. It is exactly what we need, exactly the distraction we required, and so we wait just a few heartbeats for them to come closer and then we pour from the wall with the most noise that we can make.

If a hoard of armed, shouting and muddy men fell out of a wall at me, I would certainly be quite shocked, and so the same is held true for our assailants. I see a bare-bottomed young _adan_ boy yanked back into the safety of the hidden corridor, and this is enough for me to know that he is safe. I lose myself into the fight that breaks out in this hallway, feel the familiarity of it after hours of sneaking around and talking endlessly… and it is _exactly_ what I need.

Legolas and I reach toward one another with our minds, instinctively this time. We do not consider it, we do not doubt it, because we both know that we are on borrowed time with this link of ours and I am damned if I do not take advantage of it whilst I still have it. It is harder, far harder, but we have learned the skill of it and our minds reach out… clasp hands across the distance between us. Elf and dwarf; leaf and stone.

I can see, I can anticipate and I can interpret the world the way I never have before. Legolas loses any fear he feels at being so deep beneath the ground; connects with the Song in a different way and become solid and powerful. We complement one another perfectly and I know for a fact that I laugh as I swing my axe… just the once, just enough for it to be unseemly. I do not care. If any one of these men could feel the intoxication of seeing and feeling as both an elf and dwarf at the same time, they would laugh through bloodshed as well.

~{O}~

Legolas dances with his blades. I can never describe it accurately.

Grace and lethal speed, he has an awareness of his surroundings that I have never known before and likely never will. I am slower, but where he will bend and bow I will force my way through with strength and solidity. These men are skilled – they are well trained, and despite that we have taken them by surprise they have recovered well. We do not have the easy time of it that I had expected, but after a moment of consideration I would think perhaps the men left behind here would be the best amongst them. They guard the King, after all.

They dodge me when I had not expected them to dodge, counter where I had imagined an easy victory, and so the fight lasts longer than I had expected. Significantly longer. Enough to have a thrill of worry in my gut that we might not be entirely victorious.

Just for a moment. A whisper in my mind.

The men we have brought are exceptional. The Whitecloaks who survived – for all I know – and a cluster of Khandish assassins; born and trained through their whole lives, just for this. A woman who has held a huge circle of the city by herself, through blade and kindness and bravery exactly where each was needed. A slippery thief who I wish I still disliked, darting from shadow to shadow with his cloak and cowl pulled over and hiding him fully, slitting throat and puncturing kidney wherever the shadows allow him. We are few, but – frankly – we are marvellous, and I have fought with the _laegrim_ archers of the Greenwood and would class these men as exceptional. It is slow, for a moment I am concerned, but only for a moment.

We dispatch an entire corridor of men, and I do not think I will ever forget the shift of boots upon stone, or the soft and personal sounds of pain as I gave each man his rest. As I kill them.

Raw and real, each blow felt up my arm, and men make such horrible, _horrible_ sounds when they are hurt. I think of Aragorn and steel myself, push it all away. I think of Minas Tirith and of Gondor, but it does not help. It hurts, all the same.

We fight in echoing corridors of stone, where there are no sounds but those of hurt and of struggle and – for some men – their last moments walking these lands. It is nasty and brutal, but eventually we are victorious. The silence falls again… all that I can hear is a ringing in my ears and the scuff of boots upon stone. There is one final cry as the last man dies and then there is nothing.

I wipe sweat from my brow with a hand smeared with blood that is not my own, and although I notice the way it shakes it is not the first time, and is unlikely to be the last.

This did not feel right. None of it feels right, not ever.

I stand upon quivering legs, blinking at the bodies that surround us, each one a brother or husband or son. I breathe heavily and take a moment to gather myself, but Legolas surges forth. He steps over the corpses that litter this hallway as though they are nothing and then reaches the doorway. The massive, impenetrable wooden door that Fallon's men have been unable to breach thus far. He strides forth with blades still dripping, and blood upon his face, pauses, thinks. Glances at me and wavers.

Reaches out and knocks, quite politely.

"Oh, you make a mockery of us," I snap loudly, and Legolas turns and hisses me to silence. He turns back to the door.

Legolas rests both of the palms of his hands flat upon the door, and the rest of us shuffle back although I do not think we mean to or really know why. He rests the side of his head to the solid wood, raps upon it one more time, and then I hear the workings of locks and intricate closures that none have been able to breach. Legolas steps back as the beautiful door swings open, and then there is Aragorn. My dear.. _dear_ Aragorn. Stood right there. Scowling at Legolas with a circlet upon his head and a sword within his hand, pulling the huge door aside. The King of the city we are trying to save.

He glares at the elf that knew him as a child, far younger than Sig is now.

The elf who taught him archery and carried him to bed, soothed his fevers and suffered his foolish pranks… then helped him with them once he had grown a bit.

"I would imagine that you could have come here sooner," Aragorn scowls at Legolas. "Had you tried a trifle harder."

"We had much to do!" I call out before Legolas has a chance to throttle the King of Gondor into the afterlife. I shove him to one side as I pass, reach out and pull Aragorn to me in a tight embrace – one that he does not fight. He relaxes, lets out a breath that I do not think I was supposed to notice, and although I am certain my brothers are both still glaring at one another over my head, he returns the embrace. I pull away, clap him quite hard on the shoulder as I pass, stride into his chambers as though I live there.

"Good evening, Gimli," I hear – a soft and fair voice with a hint of amusement in it. I grin once I see the Queen, because Arwen is dressed for battle in boots and tunic and jerkin but she is also quite comfortably curled into a chair with a slim book in her hand. She returns the grin, her face brightening like the sunrise. She laughs and then I am being embraced again.

"He was quite worried, you know," she murmurs into the thatch of red frizz that my hair has become.

"Oh, I can gather that by the deepness of his scowl. But he usually takes it out on Legolas so we have a moment, and I am utterly famished."

I can hear arguing begin in sindarin behind me, and when Legolas and Aragorn speak to one another in their most comfortable tongue there is no point in trying to follow. It is rapid and hissed and all twisted together in some horrible _laegrim_ dialect. They start to gesture furiously at one another, and so I wave the others in… all of the men stood there uncomfortably, watching this odd reunion.

"Come in, lads. They will be at it for a minute or two, and we might as well eat whilst we wait."

They file in, uncertain and tense and frowning, trailing a mix of blood and dust and mud all through Aragorn's nice rooms. Shutter closes the doors behind him, just to be safe, and then Sig pushes his way to the front of the group.

 _You brought a child?!_ I hear Aragorn exclaim in horror, and then they continue, a bit louder this time…

"Are there any honey cakes?" he asks fervently, smiles broadly at the Queen and then bows awkwardly as an afterthought. She laughs, delighted, opens her arms and the boy runs to her with a sound of joy.

We all relax a little, but I wish she had answered.

I do like those honey cakes.

TBC

nfd;nvl


	23. Chapter 23

If I am honest, I had perhaps expected a different reunion between the King and the elfling. Their relationship is a complicated one.

How to resolve this creature of ash and fire as a childhood hero? How to accept this King as a once fragile boy?

I find the stash of food that I knew would be laying around the place. Aragorn is the King of Gondor, after all; apparently his entire household seems to follow him around with food, just in case. They have gone Kingless for a very long time so I understand their anxiety, and right now it suits me well. The bread is a bit stale, the cheese a bit hard, the pastries have seen better days but it is food, and none of us have eaten for a while. Nothing more than soggy field rations or tough salted beef.

Sig crams as much food into his mouth as it will hold, spilling crumbs all down himself. He picks up a silver salver that he finds and heaves it up to his chest; clutches it with both hands… cups it against him as though it is something precious and then waddles off to distribute the food to the men.

I drop into the chair next to Arwen who shifts to allow my presence, dropping bare feet to the floor where her boots sit. She reaches over to wipe some blood from my forehead with a scowl and I give her the slightest acknowledgement, but I am more curious as to my brothers' actions. They are an odd pair, and sometimes it is interesting to not be the oddest amongst us.

They have stopped arguing, at least; the steady stream of incomprehensible elvish has dried into a standoff with a battered and bloody elf on one side, and a frustrated King on the other. I cross my leg upon the knee of the other, tear a bite of bread. Lean back comfortably and watch as Aragorn's chest heaves as though he has just run a mile in short order. He looks livid, but I know why. I know them.

"You look awful," Aragorn accuses, as though this might be a capital crime here. His face is cut into planes and hollows in the firelight, pale blue eyes the only colour to him apart from the slightest flush to his cheeks. He stands cut to one side, his sword arm held as though he is ready for battle. I am fully prepared for their argument to escalate, for this shouting match to continue well into the next few days, but I shift my glance to Legolas for just a moment.

The poor lad is exhausted.

Legolas is old, so very old, but in the ways of his people he is younger than both Aragorn and I. We put much weight on the years that he has lived, but not the fact that elves are not men and they are certainly not dwarves. Legolas is tired, hurt… I think there is a shadow in his heart that he carries from some of the things that he has done tonight. He stands before Aragorn and instead of battle I see weakness in him: a tilt of his head, a blink, a deep breath. He has not the energy for this particular fight, not any longer, and of course Aragorn sees it before I do. Of course he does.

He steps forward suddenly; a lunge… grabs the elfling's jerkin and yanks him forward before he can right himself. Aragorn catches our friend into an embrace that is tight and fierce, as close as he can pull him, and Legolas tenses like a wire, for just a moment before he folds into the embrace. An elven Prince and a mannish King, a boy and his protector.

"He has been worried," Arwen murmurs to me. I turn and she smiles. "For both of you."

I feel a measure of the weight upon me lift, but only a measure. I turn again to my brothers and Aragorn screws his eyes tightly shut, buries his face into Legolas' shoulder, then claps him upon the back and releases him. Rests his forehead to Legolas' just for a breath.

"Truly, my friend," he smiles. Cups one hand to the side of the elfling's face. "You look awful. Again. Still? I lose track sometimes."

Legolas reaches up and pulls Aragorn's hand away, but it is gentle and he holds it for a moment, pats it. He smiles a golden smile, casting the shadows of the room into hiding. He changes in a moment, and it affects us all. He glances at me and I throw a honey cake toward him, which of course he catches, and Aragorn finally laughs. His anger has been nothing but worry, and he now he feels relief. The mood breaks, scatters, dissipates like morning mist.

Aragorn has a fine face for laughing. All of his lines and edges are made for it. When he smiles – truly smiles – his face is animated and handsome despite the crags and creases… perhaps because of them. He laughs and drags me out of my chair to embrace me once again, and I am starting to wonder how much of this night will be spend hugging. I laugh in any case, because we came here to spend time with one another and we have barely done anything of the kind. It is poor circumstance that has us in his chambers this way, dripping mud and other things best not examined too closely all over his nice floor, but I will take it where I can get it.

"Captain Hob," Aragorn calls, breaking the spell first. Legolas almost instantly melts into the dimness… out of the way and out of focus. An observer. He kisses Arwen upon the forehead as he passes and I allow him this retreat, because he needs it. "I am ready to leave, but I would have a report from you. And Gimli, you may save your breath because I will have no argument."

He glares at me, expecting a fight, and I consider being glib or acting innocent, but I have not earned this accusation. Not this time.

"I have said nothing," I tell him flatly. He narrows his eyes.

"Then it is worse than I thought. Come, Hob; some of your men require a healer and I have supplies. I will see to them whilst you provide your report and I would have no tarrying; I have waited in this room for long enough."

To a man, everyone in the room blinks at him. Some glance at the Queen doubtfully, others shift uncomfortably, and Aragorn _tsks_ in irritation.

"You, you, you… take your shirts off and try not to bleed on my floor. Sig fetch water and bring it to the next room, and you… yes you, can wash those filthy hands and assist me. Any man who thinks he can best the Queen with a sword is welcome to try, and will _someone_ tell me why there are assassins in my bedchambers."

And that is about enough of that.

~{O}~

The King of Gondor has the hands of a healer, it is known far and wide. To see such a thing in action though… it settles my heart just to watch. It reminds me of nights in the dark, cold and weary, with the thought of hope nothing but a glimmer held carefully in our hands. It reminds me of days long gone when we were naught but a ranger, elf and dwarf. Dark times, dark indeed, but there were moments of back then… moments when I was at my best. With light ahead and darkness behind, and my greatest friends at my side. There is familiarity in it, and Aragorn returns me to a place of comfort and succour when I need it the most. He heals in more ways than just his touch.

By nothing but fire and candlelight he stitches and binds the hurts of the men gathered here, and none escape his ministrations. He is quick but not rushed, he is fluid and practised and I think he could have done this in his sleep. He listens to Hob's report with little more than a question here and there, his focus narrowed – falcon sharp – upon the task that he has put himself to. The men beneath his ministrations seem uncomfortable at first, but once they are patted upon the arm to show that they are done, they are – to a man – looking far better. Their lines of pain are eased, their weariness lessened, their backs straighter and their loyalty renewed a thousandfold.

He works through them like a wind through grass and I had imagined that this might slow us down terribly, but it does not. For every man he lays his hands upon, Arwen is there in his wake to clean their wounds with warm water, sweet and fresh with herbs. As she passes them by, Sig gives them water to drink and – in some cases – an awkward hug and a wet kiss if he is fond of them. I sit quietly in a chair beside Hob, far more comfortable than he is, and behind me I feel the ghost of Legolas' presence shifting in the shadows. Shutter has also found himself a seat nearby, and I think perhaps he has earned that position, but Oren and his men refuse all help and stand back where they could easily be taken as part of the draperies. I watch them with the side of my eye, but I know that Legolas is watching them all the more closely and that is enough.

There is a look that Aragorn gives me during Hob's report – barely a glance – but it shifts from me to Legolas in the darkness and I can read it as though he has spoken aloud. He has seen exactly what the elfling has, and what I am starting to suspect as well. There is something that falls foul with the Lady Briar… something is not right, something does not sit correctly with her behaviour or what she has said.

I meet his gaze with nothing but blankness, no reaction at all, but that is a reaction in itself for someone like him. He reads it quite clearly.

Arwen sends Sig into one of the other rooms; a small one that I think might be little more than a storage room, although it is bigger than the room I have been given to sleep in. There is a chest of weapons in there, she says, and he is to bring them out so that the men might replenish their supplies. There are fresh blades and a few swords, a water-tight box filled with fresh arrows so that Legolas might fill his quiver again, but Sig near enough tears his arms out of his shoulders trying to drag the chest into the room.

Shutter goes and helps him, opens the chest with a murmur of appreciation, takes a few flechettes to replace those that he has lost and distributes the weapons where they are most needed.

"Well then," Aragorn announces, casts his eye across the room and decides we are more or less likely to survive the rest of the day. He turns to the boy, little Sig, who has not stopped feeding and watering the men. "Let me see to this little Whitecloak before we go."

Sig goes to him, perhaps a little shyly at first. He stands before his King, so very tiny and yet so mighty, and Aragorn picks up his arm by the sleeve, drops it. Picks up the other, drops that too. Picks up a mop of his pale hair between thumb and forefinger and this time the boy laughs, squirms. Aragorn crouches before him and looks into his ear, pinches his nose, Sig laughs a little louder and a little braver.

"Well," the King decides sadly. "I am afraid I shall have to chop off both arms and your nose, and perhaps your legs as well. You will simply have to grow new ones."

He pokes the lad gently in the ribs on both sides, a gentle touch that is… _eru he is tickling_ him! I have never seen such a thing, and I look across to where Legolas is staring at him in horror, as though he has taken all leave of his senses. Sig laughs fully then, bright and happy, because I am starting to think that nothing can truly upset this child; that he is so innocent he is beyond harm in his heart or mind. Aragorn grins and stands, casts his eye again across the room.

"Legolas?" he turns to the elf, who has made his way quietly to the door and is stood guard. "Can you tell what happens without?"

The elfling's face turns scandalised for a moment.

"I can hear through a door, _Estel_ ," he scowls, then turns back to the ornate wood. His eyes are distant but not for long. "There is nothing but silence, at least outside this door in any case."

I stand, and I notice Jin and Larke speaking quietly over by an enormous bookcase as I straighten my clothing, stretch the knots and cracks out of my body. This moment of rest has done far better for my bones than anything before now, and I feel better rested if not better. I also catch Shutter's eye, and I see something in there that bothers me but he shakes his head.

 _Not now_ , he tells me. Not yet.

Larke comes to Hob, who is stood by my side and so I hear what he has to say.

"The khands, sir, they have a request."

Hob looks to Aragorn, to me, then nods to the lad.

"When the Prince was taken, when he was found in the vaults, we took prisoners. Two of them are Oren's men. He has asked for leave to fetch them."

Hob's eyebrows shoot up further than I have ever seen eyebrows reach, barks a laugh that speaks far more than any words.

"Not all of them, sir," Larke adds. "He requests leave for only three of them, and they will meet us at the Tower."

"He would consider me so foolish?!"

"What harm could it do, truly?" I interject. Hob turns very slowly in my direction, blinks at me as though I have just insulted his great ancestors, but I am too old to quake beneath the gaze of a man half my age. I turn to Jin instead, squint into the darkness where they all skulk. "Perhaps you could tell us why this must be done now? When we have need of you most?"

"You lose three to gain five once we return," Jin says simply, barely raising his voice. "One of the men is an expert with a blade… far better than I am."

I am still unconvinced, and if I am unconvinced then Hob looks as immovable as the mountain. Jin sighs.

"He is also my brother. And I would be in your debt."

And this time Hob pauses, deflates, tilts his head to the ceiling and groans.

"Oh, by the stars and the moon there is always _something!_ Go then, do as you must… but Larke will go with you, and if anything happens to him – or you are not there when we need you – then each and every one of you will owe far more than any debt."

Jin bows deeply, nothing of gratitude upon his face, but I catch a glance at Oren and I see it there instead. He nods at Hob but it is not returned, and finally… _finally_ we are ready to move. Sig pushes himself to the centre of the group, gives Shutter a glare that dares him to say anything of him remaining behind, but none of us do. An oath has been sworn to the boy, as inappropriate as it might be to swear such oaths to children. If Edgar is still alive he is going to murder us all for this.

Aragorn comes closer to me in a pretence of pulling on his cloak, murmurs beneath his voice.

"Who exactly is in charge?" he asks, and I think perhaps he could have clarified this a bit earlier. I blink at him, because the answer to that should be fairly obvious, but he shakes his head. "I have come into this too late, I will not confuse matters. Who has been in charge thus far?"

I open my mouth to answer and yet I freeze, because it is not a simple thing. I honestly cannot say!

"All of us, in different things," I point to myself, to Legolas, to Hob… and after a moment of thought, to Oren and Shutter as well, although it hurts a little. I look at the Lady Briar curiously, and she is sat silently in the shadows away from all of us. She seems diminished and unhappy, a deep frown upon her brow, and it is the first time I have noticed that she has not been one of the voices to lead us. She should be… she truly should be. This entire mess is directly linked to her, through whichever story she is telling us from one moment to the next.

Is her brother here to take charge, or to destroy the lower circle of the city? I am not sure that I believe any of it any longer, but there is nothing I can do right now. Short of asking Legolas to break her arms in a few places, I must bide my time for now. I return my attention back to what I have been asked.

Hob is the solider, the true leader of these men… the one they all look to, but he can sometimes lack in imagination if I am honest. Legolas is our scout, the experience and the blade and the shadow, but he is not trusted enough to be our leader. I do my part in trying to rein in the madness, Shutter tries equally hard to add more in its place, and Oren is there to make sure we all have someone we understand less than the elfling.

It… works, or at least it has so far. It is all we have right now.

Aragorn seems doubtful as I mutter this to him, but he has worked with less. I am sure he will be taking over in no time; he cannot help himself.

Arwen has spent a moment in tying her hair into a knot – not unlike the warrior braids of the archers, but the whole dark fall is tucked neatly into a club. I wonder for a moment if this is what Faelwen's hair is meant to look like when she ties it back, but I have never seen it in any state other than wilful and wind-blown so I am not sure. The Queen moves to stand beside the elfling, gives her husband a heavy looks that says much, and rests her hand upon the sword at her side. She is no _laegrim_ , she is a Noldorin, and I am far better used to elves wearing twin blades, but the sight of her there gives me more comfort than I would ever admit to. Any elf fighting at my side is a boon, one that I am grateful for, and these two in particular I trust utterly.

I retrieve my axe… heft it once and then twice and then look to Legolas. He catches my gaze, grants me a quick grin across the distance, across the throng and the sudden storm-tense anxiety of the men within the room. Such an odd creature, to be at his best when things are at their worst. I cannot help but return the grin and I clap Hob across the shoulder, staggering him, so that Shutter shakes his head at me. Gives me a look that asks why I must constantly hit everyone.

"Come lads!" Hob strides forward, taking his turn at being our figurehead. The room stills, turns to him, listens. "We have men in that Tower, I am certain of it. We have found no sign of them yet, but a Whitecloak is always to be found where they should not be, so let us fetch them. After all of this we will drink the taverns dry and then sleep for a week. If our Lord permits it."

He turns to Aragorn questioningly, and the King pauses for just a moment before he laughs.

"I will pay for every flagon of wine and ale in Minas Tirith to be brought to you, and I will drink it with you quite happily. But first there are men in our city that have no place in it, and I think perhaps they have underestimated the old soldiers of Gondor. A military man with a coin in his purse and a promise of ale would have the necromancer himself considering the wisdom of his coming in his way."

There is a grin and a laugh that ripples through our men; clapped shoulders and chests raised in pride. I knew he could not help himself, and if these men were loyal before then they are inextricably bound to him now. Aragorn catches me looking at him, gives me a questioning glance back, and I shake my head with a laugh. He truly does not know what he does.

"After you, Captain Hob," he gestures toward the door with his unsheathed sword. An elven blade, twice forged and with a covenant more mighty and noble than most of our family lines, but right now it is just a sword. He passes command back to the captain of the Whitecloaks, and Hob raises his hand so that Legolas pulls free the bars upon the doors… heaves it open. The door sticks, groans, shifts and then shudders inwards, and I see the musculature of an elven archer ripple for just a moment across his back, but then we are spilling outward. Quiet, careful, focussed and disciplined.

We fall into practised positions; defence and offense. These men know their roles, they fall into them as easily as a thought, and a sliver of the khands melt away with Larke into the corridors behind us.

We go to the Tower.

~{O}~

We move well, considering.

We step over the bodies in the corridor and move quickly through the lower parts of the city. We come across little resistance, nothing we cannot dispatch easily enough, and with Legolas and Arwen at our fore we evade the groups too large to deal with. There will be much in the way of routing these pockets of men once this matter is dealt with, but first we must deal with it. We do not rush matters, but we make good time through the corridors until I start to feel some familiarity with where we might be.

We are about to turn into the tunnels that will take us back out into the daylight – because they are tunnels, no matter what Aragorn calls them – but when we reach the junction that splits off toward the sunlight I pause. I stop, but I do not know why.

I am at the rear of our group so my hesitance goes unnoticed at first, but there is something… something different, wrong perhaps? There is a thrill that tugs at me, deep in my chest, and I look curiously down the dim corridor that we leave behind, the one that would take me deeper beneath the city. There is nothing there but silence and emptiness, nothing but echoing stone, and I can hear the footsteps of my friends receding away from me but I cannot move. Cannot silence the small and secret voice that whispers at me – tells me that there is something amiss.

It gives me pause, halts me in my stride. Shadow fingers trace across the nape of my neck, a whisper speaks to me and calls… calls that I should turn around and follow.

But then it is gone.

I am released, the corridor is simply a corridor, and I am being left behind.

I shake my head, dislodging the cobwebs and the lingering whispers, and it is though it has never happened. Barely a hint of it left, barely a memory. I go to follow the others but of course Legolas has noticed I am missing. He has held back – waits for me with a questioning look – but I shake my head and move past him. He continues to gaze down the corridor, curious as to what has so captured my mind. I see him reach out and trail his fingers against the stone wall, listening intently, but he hears nothing, sees nothing, feels nothing. He follows me and we catch up with the others, and I think little more on it.

~{O}~

More time has passed than I had imagined.

By the time we return to the air and the sky there is far more of the day passed than I had expected. The sun that dawned so brightly this morning has become overcast and grey, and although I doubt we will experience any further storms, it is not entirely unlikely that there will be more rainfall before the night comes. It is good, in a way, because we are not lit so brightly, not cut in sharp relief against the sky, but there is so little cover between here and the Tower that it barely makes any difference at all.

I had expected to find our way barred, had imagined guards to be posted to this final door out of the lower parts of the city, but it is one more thing that does not seem correct… just one more oddness that is starting to pile up – one upon the other. I had been concerned, I must admit, as to how we were to make it from the lowers across the flagstones and gardens of the terrace to reach the Tower. It is a knot of topiary and walled gardens – a desperate attempt to calm the blasting wind in such heights – and so we could probably sneak our way if we were slow enough, or if we were few enough. But although we are few, our number is not quite conducive to making this entire journey crawling in rhododendron bushes or submerged in ornate fish ponds.

There is a cluster of walls and follies to the centre of the top lawns, stone archways that will be bobbing with heavy roses come the summer. Cherry trees line flagstoned walkways, heavy with bloom despite that most of the blossoms lie stripped… floating and twisting in puddles after the storm. Legolas runs to the nearest, and he makes it look so easy; crouched low and fluid and swift. Aragorn, Arwen, Shutter and Oren follow him easily enough, but the rest of us waddle and lumber and lurch in our closest approximation of his movements. We come together by the wall, and I make sure I finish the journey close enough to the elves to at least peer around the walls at what they have seen.

There… the Tower. Huge, a knife cut into the cloud, bone white and intimidating.

"They are not there," Legolas murmurs.

I shoot him a look, but he does not return it. There are guards posted outside, and it is the luck of the Valar that have us unseen so far. The Valar and some very well placed shrubberies, but that is all the relief we are going to get. The rest of the approach is wide open lawn, and the last time we got this far we ended up fighting a man as large as Beorn. Our movements have not gone without repercussion, because the posted guard is twice the size that it was.

"Why have they increased the guard if they are not there?" Hob asks, but it is not a challenge. He is merely questioning.

"Do you not believe this to have been overly simple?" Shutter asks to counter the question. Hob looks horrified for a moment.

 _"_ _Simple?"_

"He is correct," Aragorn agrees. "If we had realised how little resistance we would meet once the guards in the corridor were done with, my wife and I would have moved without you many hours ago."

"We had only half of the only elves we have now, my King," Shutter points with a thumb in Legolas' direction. "I thought you might have been waiting for some ears to go with the eyes you already had. They are fairly large ears."

"They are no larger than yours," Legolas sniffs, uses that tone of long sufferance that he often uses with me, but it does not stop him touching his fingers to the fine tips of his left ear. I do not think he realises he has done it.

"It feels wrong," Arwen murmurs.

I have often noted that the daughter of Elrond sees everything… quite literally everything. She will be a fearsome mother one day. It is not often, however, that I see such intensity there. The elven burn, the unblinking age there in those depths. She has had better tutelage in softening the part of an elven gaze that makes us feel so uncomfortable, but it is an affectation, and therefore sloughs away when the situation draws her focus. I wonder whether Legolas has ever had such tutelage, and I almost laugh out loud at the thought. Even if he had not spent the last age battling beasts and monsters and swinging through the treetops, I cannot imagine the Greenwood King giving any more thought to how comfortable mortals are than he does to what his horse had for lunch.

Even if he had been taught, Legolas likely forgot it instantly. Probably on purpose.

"There are people in there," Arwen decides finally, turns her gaze to Legolas. They speak somehow; a look so intense that I could probably cook my lunch between them. There are tiny gestures, the smallest glance and movement, a whole conversation in the space it takes me to quash a sigh of bemusement. This is probably how Aragorn feels when Legolas and I do this, and we are nowhere near as close as these two. "There are people in there," she repeats, stronger, "but they are not the number we should find. It is wrong, it is all wrong."

"Well, it is certainly good that you tortured that man, Legolas. I could not imagine coming all of this way for nothing."

He gives me a filthy look, but it is not the filthiest he has ever given me. I think he recognises some truth in what I say, but instead he holds one hand out in Oren's direction and the assassin moves forward, crouches low until he joins us, then looks at Shutter as well.

"Can either of you climb that wall?" he asks.

I would be offended, but then I see the wall he refers to and I am quite happy not to be a part of this conversation. Eru, he means the _actual_ , sheer wall of the Tower itself.

There are few windows in the White Tower, but they do exist, and there is one perhaps a hundred feet from the base. It barely a window at all, and an elf could probably slip through it but I find myself eyeing the assassin and the thief; measuring their dimensions curiously. Shutter narrows his eyes, squints at Oren as though he measures his girth just as I do.

"I could maybe climb it," he muses. "I have climbed higher, but the walls were always far more cragged and I had a lot more time available to me."

"Arwen could climb it," Legolas considers to himself, "but she must remain if I am to go. None of you have functional senses beyond that of a tree stump."

"I admit the same," Oren murmurs, a hint of apology in his voice. "If I were fresher, if it were darker, if I had more time… then perhaps. I am not so proud as to admit my shortcomings; I am skilled but I am no elf."

"You believe that _you_ can climb it?" Shutter asks doubtfully. Oren looks at the elf curiously as well, as if he, too, doubts it.

I can see where his doubt stems from. The wall is quite literally sheer; a marvel of masonry without any visible flaw or marring to grant a handhold. Not even for the most skilled of men. But Legolas is no man, and he looks at the thief in consternation. Aggrieved that his ability to climb a wall is being doubted in this way.

"You are not going alone," Aragorn says, because at least _he_ recognises that Legolas could make the climb, and Hob nods in agreement.

"I do not doubt your skill, Master Elf, but you do not know what you walk into. You will be alone, and with all of the respect I am capable of granting, you are in fairly poor condition."

There is a hint of a frown that pinches the elfling's forehead, and although I go to jump in – to stop him from becoming all uppity about how ' _fine'_ he might be – it is not necessary. He frowns because he agrees, and because he is not happy about it.

"I have another thought," he admits with a sigh. Turns to face Aragorn. "You are going to hate it."

~{O}~

"So we are agreed," Aragorn nods with false cheer. Glassy eyed and rigid. "We are going to set fire to the White Tower. A tower which, I would add, has survived an age of war and darkness, but only because it had yet to come up against Legolas and Gimli."

"We are going to set fire to a _bit_ of it," Legolas rolls his eyes, just as I exclaim:

"What do you mean _Legolas and Gimli?_ I have never set fire to any part of your city before now!"

"Have you ever seen how men react to fire?" Legolas continues. "They lose their heads entirely; they will come running out of the doors in a wild panic, we probably will not even need to fight them. They will likely fall over the walls in shock and fear."

"They are not chickens!"

"Aragorn, my dear husband," Arwen reaches out and lays one hand upon his arm. "If you do not want Legolas to set fire to the Tower then we will simply need to do something else. I am sure you have another plan."

He gives her a look of betrayal.

"Then I go to climb the wall," Legolas nods. Goes as if to stand. "I apologise, Aragorn. If I do not return then please tell my father that I love him, and tell Faelwen that I will be waiting for her upon the shores of the Undying Lands. Tell Idhren that he is an idiot, and Almárean that…"

"Oh, stop it," Aragorn snaps, as quietly as he can but without losing any of the ire behind it. "Do as you wish, but you are paying for the repairs."

Legolas grins, I school my face carefully into a neutral mask because I cannot be drawn into this – I certainly cannot afford to open my purse toward such repairs – and Legolas comes to his haunches. He bears a newly filled quiver at his back, pulls his bow free and carries it low at his hip as though he was born with it there. He has been without use of it for a while, and it looks so natural that I admit I missed seeing it. A bow is a fine weapon, especially when you can work miracles with it the way that he can, but it is woefully restricted once the arrows run dry. He is also the only one of us that carry one.

He holds his hand out to me, I blink at a complete loss until I realise I hold our tinder box. I dig it out for him, elegant fingers curl around it and it disappears into the small pouches at his belt that usually hold poultices and remedies for spider venom. There is a light in his eyes that speak plainly of how happy he is to be doing something; to be running off to do something dangerous and foolish on his own. I should have expected it; it has probably been a good few hours since the last time he did.

"You know where to be," he says finally, but he is speaking to me when he says it. I think he falls into certain habits sometimes, and I wave him away. Nod at him and do not say any of the things I mean to say, because there are many ears listening and it is not always appropriate to tell him to be careful all of the time.

Legolas rests his hand for a moment upon Aragorn's shoulder and then he is gone. We can see him for a short time, but Legolas is all of the colours of the natural world and he is a _laegrim_ elf. He is not in the wood, he does not race the wind in the treetops, but he could make himself invisible in an open field if it were necessary.

"He will ready before any of us," Aragorn mutters to himself, "idiot elf. Hob, form your men into four and remain in formation at a distance, Oren your men are with me because I can better see them that way. Gimli, take Shutter and get as close to the main gates as you can. Briar – remain here with Sig. I will be truthful and say I do not know your intentions right now, and I will not have any blade at my side that I do not trust fully."

The Lady Briar looks incensed but resigned, nods although she looks as though she is chewing a wasp, and I hook a hand into the boy's sleeve and drag him near. He gives me a questioning look, but the poor lad trusts me utterly and leans into my side as though I am nothing but a favourite uncle.

I speak to him quietly, too quietly for anything but elf ears to capture, and I tell him to run if anything goes awry. To run and to hide, and to find us once the danger has passed. I tell him he is to follow no one, to listen to no one, to trust his own senses and bless his tiny heart he gives me a look of disappointment.

"You are unkind to her," he says, quietly but honestly. "She has always been very brave and very good, and I think she has done things she should not have, but she is very sad. You should help everyone, and she needs help I think."

"Aye," I sigh, take a breath and rise so that he slips away from me. His hands trail upon my sleeve as we lose contact. "That remains to be seen, laddie."

~{O}~

Legolas is good at a great many things.

He is utterly _dreadful_ at a vast swathe of skills that most people are born with, but the things that make him stand out – that truly contribute toward the legend of the elves – are those feats that he can accomplish easily and without thought. Skills beyond all others: beyond their dreams, beyond their physical capacity, beyond their endurance.

His ability to cause panic and destruction, when he really sets his mind to it, is one of those things.

He has little to hand, to be fair to him. He has naught but what he has upon his person and what he finds around him – storm sodden and decorative by intent – but I have faith in my elf. Shutter and I shear off from the main group and get as close to the Tower as we possibly can without being seen. The guards seem tired, bored, but I have come against these men many times in the last few days and I do not let this give me false confidence. I hide at the base of a statue – a particularly naked young man that I try not to look at too closely, because it is quite cold up here bless his stone heart – and Shutter secrets himself into the fold of a wall, nothing more than a wind break. It is barely hip height, but this is something that Shutter is good at and I have begun to trust him quite considerably.

We are close enough to the guards to see their features, blurred and indistinct, but that is as close as I mean to get with nothing but grass between us. The Tower hulks above us, dominates the skyline, and as I crouch I feel a whisper again of something in the mountain beneath me. Something different, something off, but I am given little opportunity to explore it. I watch a trail of smoke fly true and fast through the air and right into one of those shutter-less windows.

I freeze, expecting a hue and cry from the guards, but they have not noticed. I breathe in relief, and I wait.

"What do you think we will find?" Shutter asks, barely a breath of sound but I can hear him.

"We should not be talking," I breathe back, and he gives a soft snort.

"We are downwind, and they are men. There is no chance they can hear us. What do you think we will find?"

"In truth? Our prisoners," I admit. He nods in agreement.

"Simply creates more questions, aye?" he muses, turns his gaze to the Tower. Another streak of smoke from an entirely different location, and into a completely different window. "Why dump the prisoners here and then go elsewhere? Nothing makes sense any longer."

"Only if we think on it with Briar's words in our ears," I grumble, and he gains yet another level of respect from me by making a sound of agreement. He does not sound happy about it, not at all, but he is not the sort of man to defend his oldest and closest friend for the sake of it. Not to the point where she is making fools of us all.

"I do not think he is here for her, or for the city, or for the second circle," Shutter admits finally.

I am surprised, and it has been a difficult thing for him to say, and so I grant him the respect he deserves.

"I think you may be correct, my friend."

It is the first time I have called him such, and he cants his eyes toward me for just a flicker before he returns them to the Tower. I think I see surprise there; surprise, and something similar to gladness. We watch another streak of smoke fly into the highest window – a difficult shot indeed from that angle, and it has relied upon the wind to carry it through the aperture of the window. A graceful shot, clever, and blast him I doubt he even thought about it for anything longer than a heartbeat. Shutter makes an involuntary sound of appreciation in his throat, but by now the first window is starting to spew thicker smoke. I see a flicker of flame lick at the stone. The fire is beginning to catch.

How the elfling has even made his way around the Tower to make these shots is beyond me. We are as close as we can get, and he has either passed before or behind us to get to where he has been, but neither of us have noticed his passing. The guards are still entirely unaware of his presence.

"He is a strange one," Shutter murmurs. "He frightens me, I will admit to it, but I am glad that he is allied with us."

I grin. The White Tower catches fire, and Aragorn is going to kill us for this.

"He could have climbed that wall, you know."

As the first shouts of alarm begin.

TBC

* * *

 **Does anyone remember back when I started this, and I said it would be quite short?**

 **HA!**

 **I know this one has been a while coming (again) but I actually meant to post this three weeks ago. It wasn't the chapter itself, which I'm actually very happy with, but rather a confluence of events that have held me back from getting it in the position where it could be posted. That and the fact that the site was being weird last week. I'm doing this in Firefox because Chrome isn't working properly. Gross.**

 **Anyway.**

 **I'm going to keep this a/n short because I'm planning on finishing the next one tonight. Maybe. Perhaps. I really don't know anymore; these chapters have a life of their own. I just wanted to shout out to the fact that my stories still seem to get a lot of love that I'm not sure I deserve. There are alerts every week that new readers are favouriting my stuff, and considering how long I've been here - and how old some of these fics are now - it's endlessly gratifying. A huge hello to my new readers, and an enormous hug to those of you who have kept up with me for all this time, and I leave you tonight with about a thousand more questions.**

 **Oh and Legolas just set fire to a historic landmark. How many of you think he's actually enjoying that just a tiny bit? Elves must have bucket lists, surely. No matter how angry it makes their bestest most special superest of friends XD**

 **Have a great weekend x**

 **MyselfOnly**


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